


Self-Sacrificing

by ALollie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caring!Mycroft, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fake Legal Jargon, Gen, Parentlock, papa lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:51:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALollie/pseuds/ALollie
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had a child at the age of 17, James Alexander Holmes. Now, at 20, he's too strung out to care for his son. Mycroft doesn't know how to approach his brother or his nephew's situation: how can he help one without harming the other? Lestrade finds himself deeply invested in the lives of three people he barely knows, yet cares about nonetheless. And Sherlock knows he's been selfish throughout most of his life, and throughout the entirety of his son's  life. But no longer. It just takes one self-sacrificing act....





	1. The Beanie Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finds himself in the cells of Scotland Yard, grappling with the fact that he must confront Sherlock about the drugs.

The decision to stop by Scotland Yard was an impulsive one. He’d just got back from his father-in-law’s funeral, and his wife—despite him clearing his schedule and being especially understanding—seemed irritated with is presence at best and downright sick of him at worst. After she’d announced she was going to take an early dinner and go to bed, Lestrade told her that he was going to check on things at the Yard. Maybe she just needed space.

It was late in the afternoon, but not too late, nearly 6:30. He’d been gone for three days, and hadn’t checked his voicemail since turning his phone off the night before. He’d forgotten to turn it back on until he got into the cab, preoccupied by trying in vain to be everything his wife could need in such trying times. He snorted at the notion of his wife ‘needing’ him as he watched his phone light up and begin to come to life in the back of the cab. The only people who _needed_ him were his team, London, and Sherlock Homes, the strange genius that was always skulking about. His team was the only one on the list that ever showed any gratitude for his being around. God knew Sherlock Holmes never would, though Greg was the only one who gave the kid the chance to be more than a dirty kid playing wannabe detective.

Come to think of it, Greg mused to himself as he dialed his voicemail box, he hadn’t thought about Sherlock since he’d left for the funeral. Immediately he felt a little guilty. Sherlock Holmes was not a child; he was a twenty-year-old man! There was no reason to feel guilty for not breathing down his neck. ‘And yet,’ he thought, hardly paying any attention to the first three messages from various members of his team expressing their condolences.

And yet, Sherlock Homes rather did need supervision. Every once in a while, he’d show up to a crime scene, his clothes rumpled and sweaty and his eyes wild. It was clear that the kid was keeping a drug habit—one that he had never confirmed nor denied, not that Greg needed him to. He’d been on the force for years, gotten acquainted with junkies of varying degrees of addiction. Lestrade treated Sherlock to mild lectures and empty threats whenever he showed up high, which the young man just let roll off his back. But Sherlock seemed to be a functioning addict, and he was useful. Lestrade simply figured he had time to build up a rapport with the kid, in the hopes that he may be better receptive to unwanted advice regarding his sobriety. Afterall, he’d only seen him four times in as many weeks. He didn’t see any signs of him slipping into irretrievable dependence any time soon—yet. 

But as he came upon the last voicemail. Left only a few hours ago, he felt he may have been far too lenient with his ‘secret weapon.’ The voice of his counterpart, Robert Davidson, who had been looking after the squad in his absence, came through his phone.

 _“Greg, I hate to bother you while you’re grieving—sorry for your loss by the way.”_  Greg rolled his eyes as he heard the expression for the hundredth time in the past two days.”— _but there’s a kid who just crashed our crime scene, says you gave him clearance—”_ At this Greg felt a spark of anger, knowing exactly what kid Davidson was talking about. Sure enough, Davidson continued. “ _Name’s Sherlock Holmes? It sounded familiar, I remembered you mentioning him, I think. Anyway, he’s tweaked out of his mind and I gotta take him in”_ Greg groaned and slid down his seat in the back of the cab. The cabbie eyed him suspiciously but soon turned his attention back to the traffic. “ _I know you’ll be back soon so I’m just gonna keep him in the drunk tank, I’ll try to keep him from being fully processed. Call me back when you get a chance. Bye.”_ Greg sighed. At least Davidson was a decent fellow. 

Greg felt nothing for a moment, the he just felt tired. He knew eventually something like this was bound to happen, and it was his own fault for being so trusting and naïve. He felt anger at Sherlock, for the drug use and for his impatience. He couldn’t have just waited until tomorrow? And he felt fear. He could get severely reprimanded, demoted, or even fired behind this. Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment, to get his breathing under control. Once it was back to normal, he called Davidson.

“ _Hello?_ ” a voice answered after three rings.

“Robert, it’s Greg. I just heard your message. What’s going on?”

“ _Greg, it was crazy._ _He just walked right under the tape, looking for you. A constable—it was Brian, I think—got hold of him and he started pushing and yelling about how he was doing us a favor and demanding we tell him where you were. Apparently, you have half a brain where the rest of us have none.”_

Greg snorted. Unbelievable, the closest thing to a complement ever uttered by Sherlock Holmes, and he missed it trying to be supportive for his shrew of a wife. He also didn’t miss the touch of annoyance in Davidson’s tone. He tried to get back on track.

“You said he was high?” Greg asked, cautiously.

“ _Oh yeah, high as a bloody kite,_ ” Davidson confirmed. “ _He was sweating like crazy and his pupils were huge. I offered to let him leave and come back to talk to you in your office tomorrow and he just lost it. Started kicking and screaming about how we’re gonna lost precious time and some other stuff that didn’t make a lot of sense.”_ Well, that sounded like Sherlock. All about the victim when his interests align with theirs.

Davidson continued. “ _I told him if he didn’t calm down I was gonna have to place him under arrest. He didn’t listen, so I got the cuffs out. Then he head-butted Brian and tried to make a break for it, but Donovan caught him and cuffed him.”_ Goddamnit, Sherlock, Greg thought, but was careful not to interrupt Davidson’s retelling.

“ _He’s here on public intoxication, possession, assault on an officer and resisting arrest. He’s sleeping it off in the cells now, if you wanna come in and take his statement.  I know you just got back, and you probably want to rest…”_

Here, Greg cuts in with “No, I’m already on my way in. Jennifer wanted some space, today was pretty hard on her.” After glancing out the window to gauge where he was, he turned back to the phone. “Tell him to wait, I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” 

“ _He’s not going anywhere,_ ” Davidson laughed awkwardly. They often joked around the Yard about perps always being able to be found once they’d been brought in, but since everyone knew that Sherlock was Lestrade’s pet project, the humor seemed forced. “ _I’ll let him know you’re on your way,_ ” Davidson said, and promptly hung up.

Greg sighed. He was far more entangled in Sherlock’s life than he had any desire or need to be. I struck him that he knew next to nothing about the man, even after nearly a month of letting him on cases, but found himself invested in his wellbeing all the same. He swore under his breath at the predicament that awaited him at Scotland Yard, the simply closed his eyes and thought about what to do with Sherlock, until the cabbie told him he’d arrived.

* * *

 

At Scotland Yard, Lestrade made a beeline for Davidson’s office. It was empty, so he headed down to the tanks. There he found Davidson, perched behind the desk with the sergeant who was actually stationed there, waiting for him.

“Greg,” he said in greeting. Lestrade nodded. He and Davidson had a mutual respect for each other, but they weren’t really friends outside of work. He’d bend the rules to help a fellow officer, but only if he saw a benefit in doing so. The troubling thing about this fiasco was that it was clear Davidson never would have gone so far outside the lines had Sherlock not been so out of control and clearly fixated on Lestrade. Now that it was clear that Sherlock was, at the very least, contained, Greg wondered how Davidson would react to his keeping a “pet junkie,” as Donovan would say. He also wondered what he’d say to their superiors about his allowing said junkie on to crime scenes. Sherlock was a genius, but he was still a civilian and letting him prowl around on the scenes of open cases could have serious implications.

“Robert,” Lestrade said, putting his hands in his pockets and effecting a tone he hoped was calm and a little exasperated. “Where is he?”

“Cell 3. We’ve put away all his effects in the back. Except the phone, we had to take it back out and turn it off, it kept ringing.” Davidson answered. Lestrade nodded again and walked down the row of cells until he came to the third.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, knees to his chest, with his head facing the bunk and his back against the wall. His clothes had certainly seen better days, though Greg had also seen him in far worse. His inky, black curls were lank with grease and grime, and Greg would confidently place a bet on the boy having lost weight since the last time he’d seen him, which could only have been a week ago.

“Sherlock?” Greg said calmly, but loud enough that the young man heard him. Sherlock turned his head and looked at Lestrade. He made no move to stand or speak, unfazed by Lestrade’s presence.  

Lestrade, on the other hand, was started by the sharpness of Sherlock’s cheekbones and the dulled lusted in his eyes. Clearly, he’d been on a rough comedown. Not just today—it seemed that the drug use had been taking its toll for a while now.

“I heard you broke into a crime scene without permission.”

“I heard your father-in-law died. Mazel tov,” the younger man deadpanned, in that baritone voice that hadn’t quite settled yet.

“Don’t be rude,” Lestrade said. But he wondered why he bothered; Sherlock was always rude.

“Why not? It’s not like the two of you were close.”

“That’s not important,” Lestrade said as he tried to ignore the shaking hands of the man in the cell. “My wife was very upset,” he said, though he didn’t quite believe it.

“Sorry, did you think I _wasn’t_ referring to your wife when I said you weren’t close?” came Sherlock’s snarky reply.

Lestrade resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and gnawed the inside of his cheek for a moment instead.

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and how you went and got yourself arrested because you couldn’t wait one more day for me to actually _call_ you onto a case.”

“It’s not my fault, you said you’d be back on Friday.” Sherlock said, irritation blatant in his voice.

Lestrade blinked at him. “It’s Wednesday.”

Mentally, Lestrade shook himself. How was it that the kid was two days ahead? Or maybe he was a week and half behind. Either way, clearly this habit of his was getting to him. He realized he couldn’t just let Sherlock keep this up, and that he should brace himself for a conversation about possible treatment. A phone ringing in the distance, probably at the desk up front, brought him back to the task at hand.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said breezily, springing to his feet. His eyes crossed a bit and Lestrade thought he might tip over. But he righted himself and crossed the cell until he was standing right in front of the police officer, peering at him from the other side of the bars. “Now that you’re back,” he continued, “you-know-who is going to have me released.

Greg sighed, because he did know who, and that outcome seemed rather likely.

Greg had met Mycroft Holmes only once before, after he kidnapped him the day he met Sherlock. Mycroft was a portly man, but no less menacing for it. He was far more powerful than he looked, especially when speaking on the subject of his younger brother. Greg didn’t know if the elder Holmes thought he was truly helping by bailing his little brother out all the time, but he could understand how he couldn’t help himself. For all his prickliness and acidity, even Greg found himself unable to keep from helping Sherlock, and he’d only met him a month ago. He imagined he’d be even more inclined to bend over backwards for the young man if he’d grown up with him.

Right on cue, Davidson arrived with a box of Sherlock’s effects. A magnifying glass, wallet, a few stray notes and business cards (Greg couldn’t read whose they were, but he assumed Sherlock’s own), the coat Sherlock always wore, and most surprisingly, an elephant beanie baby. It was baby blue with purple polka dots, and the thing was ratty but clean—unlike everything else on Sherlock’s person. Greg took the box and the coat as Davidson explained.

“Some big-wig just called and said all his charged have been dropped,” Davidson said, a look of disbelief on his face as he nodded at Sherlock, who was smirking in the cell. “You’re free to go,” he said once he’d unlocked the door and stepped aside to let Sherlock out. He waited around for any signs of surprise from either his fellow officer or the recently freed junkie, but received nothing but a resigned sigh from Greg and smug look from Sherlock.

Sherlock turned his smug look on Greg, and held his hand out for his box as the two headed out of the holding cell area. When Greg obliged, the smirk was quickly replaced with a frustrated frown. Sherlock picked up his mobile phone, and for the first time since meeting the boy, he saw a look of panic.

“Did you turn off my phone?” he all but growled.

“Yeah, Peter, the desk sergeant did, said it kept ringing,” Davidson shrugged. He clapped Greg on the shoulder, and said, “I’m gonna head home. See you tomorrow, Greg.” He headed toward the exit, and tossed a “Keep your nose clean, kid” over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was fumbling with his mobile, trying to turn it on. 

“Idiotic son of a…” he muttered angrily under his breath. “What time is it?” He asked Greg over the sound of his phone booting up.

“Nearly 7:15,” Lestrade answered, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

Sherlock swore again, listening to a few of his voicemails as the two headed upstairs to the main floor. He suddenly snapped it shut and shoved it into one of his coat pockets. He looked at Lestrade through his dirty fringe of hair and said, “I need a ride somewhere.”

Lestrade regarded him skeptically. “Where?”

Sherlock sighed, and buttoned his coat all the way up, though it wasn’t quite chilly enough to bundle up. He finished shoving the items from his effects box into his coat, his fingers lingering on the little elephant beanie baby. He glanced at Lestrade, then hastily shoved it into his coat as well. The box, to Greg's immense annoyance, he tossed on a nearby bench.

“Baker Street,” he said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, please review and let me know what you think!


	2. James Alexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade meets James Alexander, Sherlock's three year old son and his babysitter, Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade climbed out of the cab, gazing at the old timey façade with the striking black doors and the numbers “221B” in gold. He paid the cabbie, even as Sherlock griped, “I asked for a ride. I could’ve gotten a cab myself.”

Lestrade looked at him curiously. “You wanted to voluntarily ride in a police car?” he said, eyebrows climbing toward his hair.

“Well, I wanted to beat any traffic,” the young man huffed, fixing his coat and fluffing his hair. Lestrade stared at him. Sherlock had a very vain and arrogant countenance, but Lestrade had rarely, if ever, seen him ‘primp.’ “Who’re we meeting?” Lestrade asked.

“ _We_ aren’t meeting anyone. _I_ am going inside and you are leaving. I only needed a ride,” Sherlock said, knocking firmly on the door.  
“You freaked out and asked for a ride, I paid for the cab, I’m going to see what all the fuss is about,” Lestrade said stubbornly.  
Sherlock looked nervous. “Lestrade, just leave.” For a moment, Lestrade thought he’d say please.

But they both started at the sound of footsteps within the house. “Too late,” Sherlock said, face falling almost imperceptibly. Lestrade wanted to ask why he was so nervous, but he was interrupted by an older woman opening the door.

“Sherlock Holmes!” she scolded. “Where have you been?! I’ve been calling…”  
“My phone wasn’t ringing,” Sherlock said, trying to edge past. It was _technically_ true, but Lestrade was about to jump in with the whole truth, at least to apologize for the police turning Sherlock’s phone off. But the woman stood firm in the doorway, preventing Sherlock from scooting around her, and looked at the police officer. Her gaze had gone from motherly concern and frustration to skepticism and curiosity.

The woman was short and frail in appearance, but something about her had Sherlock looking at his shoes. “Who’s this one?” she demanded, a hard edge in her matronly voice.

“He’s leaving,” Sherlock said, throwing a glare at Lestrade over his shoulder. Lestrade glared back, then smiled at the woman and said “Detective Inspector Lestrade, ” as he held out a hand. The woman dropped her hard expression and smiled back. “Mycroft called, he said you’d be dropping by, I didn’t realize he meant you’d be with Sherlock. I’m Martha Hudson. It’s lovely to meet you,” she said as she beckoned them both inside. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he was finally allowed past, grumbling as he stepped over the threshold. Lestrade followed Mrs. Hudson into her flat, taking off his jacket and hanging it by Sherlock’s discarded trench coat.

“So, how do you know Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.  
“Babysitting,” she said as she waved him into the kitchen and reached for her kettle.  
“You babysat Sherlock?” Lestrade asked incredulously.  
“I did.” she said. She held up the sugar bowl and used it to indicate the milk carton on the counter. “Do you take either, Inspector?”  
“No, ma’am,” he said. She poured a cup for herself and Lestrade. Sherlock walked past the kitchen to the back of the flat, clutching the little elephant beanie baby. Lestrade watched him curiously.

“Anyway, now I look after little Alex,” Mrs. Hudson continued, bringing Lestrade back to himself.  
“Who?” he asked in confusion.

“Daddy!” a little voice shouted, prompting both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to turn toward the sound.  
“Who is that?” he asked, turning back to the kind woman.  
“James Alexander. Sweet little boy, no idea where he gets it from. Sherlock was an unruly child. Charming, but a bit unruly,” she said, shaking her head fondly.  
“Sherlock has a son?” Lestrade asked, in a slightly louder voice than he’d intended. This was the very last thing he expected to hear, he could scarcely believe the words coming out of his own mouth.  
Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You didn’t know?”  
Lestrade shook his head as a child’s laugh echoed from the back room.

Sherlock emerged, a little boy clinging to his legs. He was around three years old, with his father’s curly black hair and cupid’s bow lips. But his ears stuck out slightly, poking out from behind his hair; and where Sherlock had eyes of an indefinable hue, the boy—James Alexander, apparently—had eyes of a deep, royal blue. He wore a little red shirt with a firetruck on it, and little blue jeans. The boy’s tiny feet, however, were bare. He hid behind his father shyly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mycroft texted me; apparently, I am to introduce you to Alexander,” he said, as if someone was pulling it out of him. Lestrade was focused solely on the boy, still in shock at the revelation that Sherlock was a father.

Sherlock was basically a child himself. How old could he have been when this kid was born? No older than seventeen, surely. Not to mention, Sherlock had been half a wreck only hours ago. With a start, Lestrade realized why Sherlock had been nervous when he’d been invited into the house. Sherlock and Lestrade both knew he had a drug problem. By law, the child was endangered. Lestrade would have to take the kid to social services, or at least report Sherlock to the proper child care authorities.

But he couldn’t do that. After all, Sherlock could at least be afforded the opportunity to explain himself, and to clean up his act. Lestrade had been planning to speak to Sherlock candidly about the drugs. He just hadn’t had the chance. But perhaps now, knowing what was at stake, he could find the time and the courage. Maybe he could make Sherlock see reason, especially with the leverage of his son’s welfare.

He was brought out of his thoughts by Sherlock stepping aside, then bending at the waist to speak to the boy. “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I help him solve crimes,” Sherlock said in the gentlest voice Greg had ever heard him use. He still didn’t know if it qualified as “gentle” but the boy responded well enough. He looked nervous, and stuck a thumb in his mouth, glancing at his father. Sherlock gently took his son’s thumb out of his mouth, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the ratty elephant beanie baby. He handed it to the little boy, and said, “Go and say hello.” With a soft nudge, the boy slowly made his way over to Lestrade.

Lestrade held his breath. For some reason, he truly wanted the child to like him, not to fear him. He put on a kind smile in the hopes of soothing child—he looked as if he were terrified. “Hello,” Lestrade said softly.  
James Alexander fiddled with his elephant, then put it on Lestrade’s lap and waited.  
“What a lovely elephant you have there! Does he have a name?” Lestrade said, sneaking a glance at Sherlock. The young man watched on, his face impassive.

Mrs. Hudson reached forward and ruffled the boy’s hair, prompting a giggle that seemed to break through his nervous demeanor. “Tell the police man about your elephant, darling,” she said as she stood to put her empty teacup into the sink.  
“Simon,” he said in a quiet but excited voice. “Him named Simon,” Alex said a little louder, pointing at the toy.  
“It was Sandy when he belonged to Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson said, having finished rinsing her cup and drying her hands. She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oh dear, it’s nearly 8:30!” she exclaimed. “Bedtime!” she announced.

Sherlock looked at the clock, then back to Mrs. Hudson sheepishly. “Is it okay if we just stay here? I don’t want him to fall asleep in the cab and have to be woken again.”  
“Stay!” the boy said, snatching his elephant from where Lestrade was unconsciously fiddling with it. The child walked over to his father and stretched his hands high above his head, in a silent demand to be picked up. Sherlock obliged as Mrs. Hudson said, “Yes, you can both stay. But don’t think I don’t know where you’ve been and exactly what you’ve been up to today,” she added sternly. “I’ve told you Sherlock, I will not be his waystation. He needs _you_ and he needs you to be all there.”

Sherlock looked away under the weight of her gaze, appearing properly chastised. Lestrade would have to ask her how she did that. Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, then finally at his son, who was laying his head on his father’s chest and looking rather sleepy. “I know,” the young detective said softly. Then his gaze became sharp again as he looked back at Lestrade. “I assume you have questions?” he said.  
Lestrade nodded.  
“Follow me.”

Greg stood, leaving Mrs. Hudson to wander into the living room and turn on the television. He followed them to what looked to be the only spare room in the flat. What was clearly Mrs. Hudson’s room was across the hall from the bedroom Sherlock carried Alex into. There was only one full-sized bed in the dim room. The walls were light green and there were a few toys stacked in one corner. Books—both picture books and scientific journals—were stacked on the dresser. A photo of what could only be a young Sherlock sat on the dresser as well, next to a photograph of a young Mrs. Hudson and a man he assumed to be Mr. Hudson at Disneyworld. On the nightstand was a lamp providing the only light, and a more recent photo of Alex and Sherlock. The boy was on his father’s shoulder’s, throwing breadcrumbs into a duck pond while Sherlock smiled and pointed at something in the distance. _This talk is gonna be a lot harder than I thought_ , Lestrade thought, as he turned from the family photo to watch Sherlock put his child to bed.

He had laid pillows along the edge of the bed so that Alex wouldn’t fall out. He handed the beanie baby back to the child and said, “Pretend to be asleep while I talk to Lestrade. If you’re still awake when I get back, I’ll read you a story.” He pulled the cover’s up to Alex’s chin. Greg tried not to notice his shaking hands. After a quick glance at Lestrade, Sherlock kissed his son’s forehead.  
“Night-night, Daddy! You come back?” the boy said through a yawn.  
“Yes, of course. Night-night, Alexander,” he said as he turned off the lamp and beckoned Lestrade to follow him.

They passed Mrs. Hudson on the way to the front door. “Where do you think you’re going?” the older woman asked, sitting up, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. He sighed and said, “Only as far as the front door, I need a cigarette.”  
Mrs. Hudson turned her gaze to the detective and pointed at him saying, “Don’t you let him run off.” He nodded sagely, and she turned back to her television set.

Sherlock and Lestrade headed out the front door and sat on the steps outside. The younger man removed a battered package of cigarettes from his pocket and took one. He offered the pack to Lestrade, who gratefully took one as well. Sherlock then produced a lighter, but his hand was shaking too badly for him to light up. Finally, Lestrade took out his own lighter and lit both is and Sherlock’s cigarettes.

The two smoked in silence for a while, the Lestrade decided to breech the sensitive subject.

“So. You have a son,” he started calmly.  
“Yep,” Sherlock said popping the ‘p.’ Greg found it obnoxious, but then Sherlock tended to be extra obnoxious when he was nervous.  
“Why do you call him Alex if you named him James?”  
Sherlock looked startled, as if that wasn’t the question he was expecting. Lestrade wasn’t really expecting to ask it, but he was still trying to get his head around this whole thing.  
“I wanted to name him Alexander James Holmes. His mother obstinate but not vindictive. She switched the names just to be annoying,” he said, snorting more in amusement than annoyance.  
“Is she…still in his life?” Lestrade asked. Apart from this being a general fact-finding conversation, Lestrade knew that eventually he’d have to bring up the drugs. And if he _did_ have to report Sherlock, he’d rather leave the child with his mother than with a foster family or child services.

“No,” Sherlock said around his cigarette. “She died two years ago. I doubt if Alexander even remembers her.”  
“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said.  
“Don’t be, everybody dies” Sherlock said, forcefully, making Greg wonder who he was reminding. “We weren’t…dating,” Sherlock continued with a slight sneer, “…or anything like that. We just…” he faltered, searching for the right words. “Weren’t careful with our casual relationship,” he finished awkwardly, with a slight blush.  
Lestrade never dreamed Sherlock even had the ability to blush. He smirked a little, which Sherlock immediately caught onto. “Don’t be childish,” he snapped.  
“Look who’s talking,” he said, fixing Sherlock with a look. “How old were you?” he asked, taking a drag of his half-finished cigarette.  
“Seventeen, by the time he was born.” Sherlock said, staring into the dark.  
“Christ.”  
Sherlock shrugged and took another puff. “Mycroft was the only one who knew about him before he was born. I invited my parents to the hospital after.”

Lestrade started and nearly choked. “You…you wanker! You didn’t tell your parents?” he exclaimed.  
“I figured they’d be too distracted by their new grandson to be angry with me.” Sherlock said, with a shrug.

 _Just like tonight_ , Greg thought. Sherlock may not have wanted him to ever find out about Alex, but once he _did_ find out, Sherlock had played him in much the same way. Introducing him to the boy, making him watch him tuck him in—all that so that when they had this talk, Lestrade would be lenient with him. A ball of fury started to form in Lestrade’s chest.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock said “I didn’t try to use Alexander to manipulate you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Lestrade was still skeptical.

“Well, what am I supposed to think? Sherlock, just this afternoon you were arrested for getting high and breaking onto crime scene. And I come here to find out that you have a son you have been neglecting so you can shoot up and solve murders!” Lestrade said forcefully. He needed Sherlock to see the position he had put him in, and he needed him to see this from his point of view. He needed Sherlock to see that his behavior was even more unacceptable, because it wasn’t just his own life that he was ruining with drugs anymore. There was a toddler sound asleep just a few steps away that would need him to clean himself up and make something of himself. He needed Sherlock to see that he couldn’t afford to be a child anymore.

Sherlock’s head whipped up, fury in his voice and clear in the hardness of his eyes. “I have not neglected him. I have _never_ neglected him,” he said, staring Lestrade down. “ _I_ spend nearly every spare moment with him. _I_ take him to the park, and to the museum, and to the library. _I_ put him to bed every night, changed his diapers, fed him and stayed up with him all night when he was sick last month. Don’t you _dare_ tell me he’s neglected.” Sherlock said, the fire in his eyes dying down as his shaking hands undermined the vigor of his speech.

Lestrade relented in the face of this fury. Annoyance and disdain were common emotions displayed by Sherlock, but barely contained rage was something Lestrade had never seen from him, and he was admittedly a little shaken by it. “Alright, you’re a good father. I shouldn’t have said that Alex was neglected,” Lestrade said, holding his hands up in surrender. “But you have to admit, I have a reason to be concerned. I mean I know for a fact that you’re still using—“ at this, Sherlock looked away. “So that means I need to be concerned about the atmosphere you’re creating for your son.” Lestrade finished, trying not to sound accusing, but still wanting to convey the seriousness of the situation.

It was silent for a while, then Lestrade spoke. “When did you start using? No judgement, I promise. I just want to help.” And he found that he meant it. It’d be much easier to call child services or Mycroft and let them sort it all out. Mycroft seemed to do the bare minimum when it came to Sherlock, due to their strained relationship; and social services, he knew, would not care about the individual circumstances Sherlock presented.

For some reason, Lestrade found that the more complicated Sherlock’s situation got, and the more he got to know the young man, the more he just wanted to help him get back on track.

Sherlock sighed. “I started using cocaine when I was sixteen. So did Victoria, Alexander’s mother. The other stuff,” he said sheepishly “came later.” _Christ_ , Greg thought, _sixteen is way too young for hard drugs_. Sherlock continued, “She got clean when she found out she was pregnant, but I didn’t. Not until Alexander was born.” He said, tossing his cigarette into the street and crossing his arms tight against his body.

“So, what happened after that?” Lestrade asked.  
Sherlock threw him a dirty look. “You’re determined to know everything, aren’t you?”  
“Sherlock. You know I’m trying to help.” Lestrade said, putting his own cigarette out. “Clearly you decided to take it up again.”

Sherlock sighed as looked out into the darkness again. “Victoria was killed in a car accident. She lived with her aunt, and she was going up to Devon to tell her parents about Alexander. At the last minute, she left him with me because he had an ear infection. She never made it out of London, a drunk driver collided with her cab. She and both drivers were killed instantly.”

Lestrade shook his head in sadness. And just like that, Alexander had no mother and Sherlock was left to raise the boy alone.  
“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said again. This time Sherlock didn’t chastise him. Instead, he seemed to shake himself and continue, reluctantly.  
“My parents were not sensitive to the timing, they demanded I either go to Uni or go to work with Mycroft. Then they left for a vacation in the States. Alexander and I were to stay with Mycroft until the returned. But it was so boring.” Sherlock said, and rather than sounding like a complaint, his voice sounded more…regretful?

 _Makes sense_ , Lestrade thought ruefully. The thing Sherlock seemed to abhor most was boredom. He didn’t seem the type to enjoy school, despite his genius, and his rivalrous relationship with Mycroft probably didn’t make the second option any more appealing. Especially not just a few months after the death of Alexander’s mother. He was probably still adjusting to life as a single father, then to be told he had to move on with something so quickly…still, this was no excuse for relapsing.  
“Anyway,” Sherlock said, shaking both of them from their respective thoughts, “I ran off, and used off and on for a few months after I returned…eventually Mycroft decided I should have my own flat with Alexander, even though I think he suspected I was still using. But I would never use in front of Alexander.” Sherlock said, putting force behind his words. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Mycroft bought us a flat, and gave me Mrs. Hudson’s current contact details. She offered to babysit Alexander for me while I solve cases for you.” He said, sounding too tired to add his usual snark.

But Lestrade wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “Or while you spend an afternoon in a flophouse,” he said eyeballing the young man. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you spiraling lately. And, I didn’t call you today Sherlock. There was no reason for Mrs. Hudson to watch him unless you were already gone.” Sherlock looked away caught out. Lestrade thought he saw shame in his eyes.

“I didn’t—“  
“Look, Sherlock,” he said “we both know I’m supposed to report you to Child Services.”  
The young man looked panicked and was clearly about to interject, but Lestrade raised a hand to stop him. “But I’m not going to. I can tell you want to be a good dad, but you have to stop using. You _have_ to, or I gotta do my job. I know we both want Alexander to be safe.”

For a moment, Sherlock looked contrite. Then his facial features hardened again. “He _is_ safe.”

Lestrade’s gaze hardened as well. “He’s only as safe as you are. If you keep this up, there’s nothing stopping you from getting arrested, or overdosing. If you die, where will that leave him?” Lestrade demanded, searching the young man’s face for understanding.

Sherlock turned away. Lestrade watched his jaw work in frustration—he could practically see the gears in Sherlock’s head turning out all sorts of unfavorable scenarios as he stared straight ahead.  
Finally, he sighed and stood, brushing dust from his trousers. Lestrade stood as well.

“I’ll try,” Sherlock said, so softly that Lestrade wasn’t sure he heard it. He looked and sounded more defeated than determined.

 _At least he’ll try, that’s half the battle_ , Lestrade thought as Sherlock headed into the house and tossed a “Goodnight, Detective” over his shoulder before firmly shutting the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a bit longer. I considered splitting it into two different chapters, but then I thought...nah.
> 
> Please review and let me know what you think!


	3. Politely Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he leaves 221B, Lestrade wonders how he can help Sherlock, and his son. Then Mycroft arrives, kidnaps him, and leaves him with more questions than answers.

Greg was aware that it wasn’t too late, not later than 9 o’clock to be sure, but it felt like the sun would come up at any minute. Talking with Sherlock was always exhausting. He idly wondered if his wife knew that he was still out, and dejectedly realized that if she did, she didn’t care. He wrapped his jacket around him as the weather grew brisk, suddenly wishing he had Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. That train of thought turned his mind back to Sherlock’s conundrum.

 

How would he help him kick the habit? Would Sherlock even accept his help? All his experience on the force told him that hard drug users, especially IV users, relapsed frequently. Sherlock admitted that he had gotten clean and fell off the wagon in the past. In fact, all statistics pointed toward Sherlock’s half-hearted agreement to clean up ending in failure. And Greg had no idea how to change those odds.

 

Just as he was realizing that he’d have to walk a little further before he would be able to get a cab, a familiar black town car pulled up slowly behind him. Lestrade had met Mycroft Holmes a little over a month ago, and had spoken to him via phone—though he’d never given the man his mobile number—several times since. Usually these conversations occurred whenever one of Lestrade’s coworkers was sick of being badgered by Sherlock and detained him. In fact, he’d met Mycroft in person for the first and only time when he himself had detained Sherlock for questioning, and found drug paraphernalia on his person.

 

It was during a gruesome triple murder, and Sherlock had arrived on the scene, raving about how the prime suspect—a restaurateur named Angelo Morelli—couldn’t have committed that particular crime, though he was guilty of car-jacking. Mr. Holmes the Elder had arrived in person, looking aloof and arrogant as he demanded his younger brother be released whilst Sherlock glared at him. He was a larger man, and younger than Greg by at least five years, but he carried himself with the air of someone much older. Despite this, Lestrade had scoffed at the man, until Mycroft just raised a delicate ginger eyebrow and handed over his credentials. Greg had begrudgingly handed over a reluctant Sherlock into Mycroft’s custody. Ever since, whenever Sherlock wound up in a cell for drugs and possession, trespassing on a crime scene, or just being a general nuisance to the police force, Lestrade got a call.

 

The sound of the windows rolling down brought Lestrade back to the present, and he peered into the dark car. Sure enough, Mycroft Holmes was nestled in the back seat, wearing a three-piece navy-blue pinstripe suit and a dark grey silken tie. He grinned his false grin as Greg heaved a sigh and got into the back seat without a word. Sherlock was exhausting, but his brother was exhausting _and_ condescending, and far more perceptive than he was. More perceptive and anyone had a right to be, really.

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, a pleasure as always,” came the soft imperious voice of Mycroft Holmes. He looked as though he’d lost weight since Greg had last seen him.

 

“Good evening Mycroft. I don’t suppose you’re just giving me a ride home to be chummy?” Lestrade deadpanned, clicking his seatbelt.

 

“Unfortunately, no, this is not merely a social call.” Mycroft knocked on roof and called out to the driver. “Take us to Mr. Lestrade’s home, Horace, and raise the partition please.” Once his request had been fulfilled and the car lurched forward, Mycroft shifted in his seat to look at Greg. “I trust you and Sherlock had an…informative chat?” he said.

 

“Yeah, Mrs. Hudson said you’d called. Sweet lady. Then Sherlock said he’d spoken to you, right before he introduced me to the nephew I didn’t know you had.” Lestrade said, eyeballing the young politician. “Why did neither of you tell me about him?”

 

“Well, Sherlock’s reasons for keeping you in the dark were obvious enough. I must admit that my reasons were similar. I was not sure you could be trusted with that information.” Mycroft said, crossing his legs. “Even I do not have the clout to fully obstruct a child services investigation into my brother’s…activities, should you have chosen to file a report. And we both know that the evidence would not lean in his favor.” Mycroft said, turning his attention to the building whizzing by under the heavily-tinted windows.

 

Greg stared at him in disbelief. “What the hell do you mean, you come in like some kind of guardian angel every time he gets arrested!”

 

“The situation concerning my nephew’s welfare is a bit more complicated than simply waiving charges, detective. James presents a whole new dimension to this particular problem, and I’ve been dealing with Sherlock for a long time. He himself must be handled delicately,” Mycroft said ruefully.

 

Lestrade was all ears. He had made a commitment to help Sherlock get clean, and he’d internally resolved to ensure that bot Sherlock and Alex were secure—that Alex would be able to stay with his father. If there was some optimal way to deal with Sherlock, it’d be best to  hear it straight from the source. And if there was an optimal source, it was Mycroft Holmes.

 

“If you have some kind of formula for handling your brother, I’d love to hear it,” he paused. “But first, before I try to deal with him, I’d like to know why _you_ haven’t done anything about it?” Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow.

 

Mycroft met his eyes. They gave nothing away; they betrayed no guilt or shame, or even anger at Lestrade for being so forward. It was like looking into the windows of a darkened house—all he saw was his own reflection. Finally, after an uncomfortable staring contest, Mycroft blinked and sighed. Suddenly, Lestrade could see his almost imperceptible mask drop fractionally. _Good to know it is a mask_, Lestrade thought.

 

“Sherlock and I have a…difficult relationship,” Mycroft began quietly, without a trace of emotional quiver. “I’ve watched him, monitored him, ever since he became too old to simply follow instructions out of admiration, which stopped when he was about ten years old. As a child he looked up to me.” There was a ghost of a smile flickering beneath the somber expression. “But he is nearly seven years my junior, so that sort of admiration was to be expected. When I left for university however, he felt betrayed, and our relationship was badly damaged. When I discovered the drug use, we quarreled and I fear our rapport was permanently severed,” he continued, staring off into his memories. Any trace of a smile had vanished, and Greg wondered what he must have looked like as a young university student, trying to keep his baby brother safe.

 

“There was glimmer of hope when he came to me when found out about Victoria’s pregnancy, although he did choose not to take my advice about informing our parents.” He said, with a touch of bitterness, as though he was still upset about not being listened to.

 

“He told me about that,” Greg said. “But I don’t understand why that would damage your relationship, I mean, Sherlock never takes advice. Like, from anyone,” Lestrade said.

For some reason, he felt that he needed to understand Mycroft as much as he needed to understand Sherlock. This family could take years and maybe the collective effort of every psychiatrist on earth to solve their issues, and even then, there might be no hope. But for some reason, Greg thought he could help Sherlock, baby Alex, _and_ Mycroft. Who the hell did he think he was?

 

“I chose to settle for an uneasy relationship with my brother, and simply monitor his well-being from a far. The more Sherlock is pushed, the more he pulls away. Perhaps its selfish of me, but I’d rather make sure he was only in minimal danger, than push him until he is lost to me. I can save him from himself, but not if I push him away by trying to keep him from the harm he’s resolved himself to in the first place.”

 

 _That kind of makes sense,_ Greg thought. And he could understand, especially once Mycroft turned to look at him. His voice hadn’t betray how saddened this decision had made him, but his eyes did. Somehow, when he was speaking about Sherlock, something almost human—almost like pain—glowed like an ember behind them. It broke Lestrade’s heart to see this seemingly invulnerable man humanized by having to choose between having a dysfunctional relationship with his brother and having a brother at all.

 

Mycroft and Lestrade were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Mycroft spoke again.

“I hope you can understand, Detective Inspector, I am not usually so…candid,” he said looking distinctly uncomfortable. “However,” he continued, “the situation has changed into something I can no longer contain unaided.”

 

Lestrade couldn’t help but snort to himself. The Holmes brothers were rarely ‘candid’ but they _both_ clearly loved to hear themselves talk. He nodded for Mycroft to continue. “How has the situation changed in your view, then?”

 

“You said so yourself, only a few minutes ago. My brother is…spiraling. Before, I, of course, knew about the drugs, but as I said, I monitored him closely, and he was a functioning addict at east. Were it only Sherlock, the solution would be simple. I’d have him in rehab, it’d be quite easily done, and done quickly. But James presents a complication.” Greg nodded in agreement. If it were up to him, he’d have Sherlock sweat it out in a cell over the weekend and sign him up for random drug testing.

 

“I can neither have my brother arrested nor forcibly held in a rehabilitation center until he’s come to his senses. Alexander would still be vulnerable to being taken by child protective services, even with my influence. I refuse to lose my nephew, and Sherlock, due to his contemptuous nature and our rivalrous relationship, would never sign his parental rights over to me. And certainly not to our parents,” he said, with a literal shudder.

 

For a moment, Greg felt as hopeless as Mycroft must. He too had considered who be able to take the child should worst come to worst. It was decidedly disheartening to hear that Sherlock own family wasn’t an option for Alex, should Sherlock be declared unfit. _God, it’s all such a mess._

 

“Furthermore,” Mycroft went on, sounding as somber as Lestrade felt, “I cannot have James Alexander taken in an effort to incentivize Sherlock into sobering up. He’d never forgive me, and the minute he was able, he’d take James and disappear. And as I believe I’ve mentioned, I _refuse_ to lose my nephew.” He said, sounding as forceful as Sherlock had just moments ago. _At least this kid is loved,_ Greg thought. “Nor will I lose my brother to this habit of his, if I can help it,” Mycroft said.

 

“Well,” Lestrade said, glancing out of the window and finding himself startled to be in front of his house. “I talked to him about it for a while after I found out about Alex.” He could swear he saw Mycroft wince in distaste for the nickname. “He’s agreed to try to clean up his act. But I don’t know what else you expect me to do. You know what he’s like,” Lestrade said, eyes flicking toward the door of his house.

 

Frankly, if Mr. Genius Mycroft Holmes himself couldn’t do anything about Sherlock, what kind of chance did he have? He was just a cop, a career that neither Sherlock nor his brother thought very highly of. He wasn’t super smart or even special. Hell, his wife didn’t even like him.

 

He felt his gaze being pulled by the intensity of Mycroft’s. “I _do_ know what he’s like, perhaps better than anyone. Yet it is you who has the greatest chance at helping him stop this madness. He craves _your_ attention, specifically, even you must have noticed. Sherlock does not seek out those he does not respect. And, though you don’t believe it—and we both know he will never admit it—he desires _your_ approval,” Mycroft said, and he looked heavily at Lestrade, as though he were searching for something.

 

“I know you feel obligated to care for him, and for James. I’m asking you not to shy away from that feeling. I spoke to you because you are in a position to help him. I am a proud man, Gregory, but—”and the use of his first name made his skin prickle with the weight of what Mycroft was charging him with—“I am begging you to save my brother, and my nephew.”

 

As Mycroft drove away and Lestrade unlocked his house, he thought of the strange turn his day had taken. And yet, despite all the information he had learned from Mycroft since being “politely kidnapped,” the question that plagued him since he said goodnight to Sherlock: How?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment so that I know how you're liking it!


	4. Animal Crackers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finally takes a definitive step toward helping Sherlock, but a three year old's tantrum could derail the whole thing

After the frankly exhausting weekend, Lestrade’s work week went by in a monotonous blur. He saw Davidson and deftly deflected his questions about whether he’d had any further contact with Sherlock. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his colleague (Okay, it was a _little_ that he didn’t trust Davidson). But it was mostly because he’d been processing the information and he still was no closer to a feasible plan to help the young man. Not to mention the small son he’d only just found out about.

 He considered calling Sherlock about a case on Monday afternoon, if only to give him something to do. The case would no doubt be too boring for him, and contrary to what the young man no doubt believed, Lestrade was perfectly capable of solving a murder without help from a mad genius. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to call upon the young man to find that he had fallen off the wagon despite what he promised. It had taken all his strength not to badger him just days after being abducted from Baker Street, especially since Mycroft told him Sherlock wasn’t very…responsive to “pushing.”

Despite his capabilities, the case and the paperwork took until Wednesday evening, and by 6:30 pm, Lestrade had a twinge in his neck and a deep desire to go home, have a beer and an early dinner, and go to bed. He didn’t know whether his wife was home or not—he highly doubted it—but he found he didn’t care. He was too tired to deal with her snide remarks and cold demeanor, and too tired to take the tube.

He walked outside and hailed a cab, and found himself vaguely wondering if she was cheating on him. He was far more startled by how little he cared than by the notion itself. At this point, their marriage was a game of chicken and they were both waiting to see who would call it quits first. He knew exactly _why_ their marriage wasn’t working, they’d wanted children long ago and it never came to be. Rather than figure out “whose fault it was” as his wife so elegantly put it, they just let their marriage dissolve.

Finally, a cab arrived and slowed to a stop in front of the Yard. Lestrade slid into the back of the cab and breathed out his address in a sigh to the cabbie. As they pulled away into traffic, Lestrade closed his eyes and let his mind go blank.

The peace didn’t last long, as his phone jolt him out of half a trance. He sighed again. _And what fresh hell is this?_ he thought, as he rummaged through his jacket for his phone. He was surprised to see Sherlock’s name flashing on his screen. He answered as soon as possible, nearly fumbling the damn thing.

“Hello?” he said, listening intently.

The other line was silent for a while, but Lestrade could hear Sherlock breathing deeply, his breath rattling in his chest and grating against Lestrade’s ear.

 _Please don’t be high. Please anything but that,_ Lestrade thought desperately.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said finally, his usually snobbish, arrogant voice was rough and slightly hushed.

“Are you alright? Where are you?” Lestrade demanded, his anxiety rising.

“I..,I’m not _well_ per se…but…” he swallowed thickly and took another deep breath. He cleared his throat and Greg repressed the urge to scream down the phone at him to get to the point.

 “I’m clean.”

Lestrade found himself repressing a different urge, this time to giggle with relief.

“I’ve not used since we talked last week,” Sherlock continued in his unusually raspy baritone. It reminded Lestrade faintly of the Louis Armstrong records his mother used to play when he was a child—if Louis Armstrong had been posh, an errant thought supplied unhelpfully.

He suddenly remembered he was still on the line with Sherlock. “That’s good. It’s great actually. I’m proud of you,” he said sincerely.

Of course Sherlock had to ruin a perfectly decent moment. “I didn’t call you for _praise_ ,” he said, and somehow Greg could hear the sneer through the phone. He rolled his eyes in spite of himself.

“Well what _did_ you call for then?” Lestrade snarked back at him.

“Right,” he said clearing his throat again. “I—“

Suddenly a high-pitched voice cut over the phone.

“Daddy, I can watch TV?”

Sherlock’s voice grew slightly faint as he turned to speak to his son. “Yes, do you want me to turn it on?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” There was a rustling as Sherlock went off to see to his son. Finally, Sherlock’s voice sounded again.

“There you are,” he said, as a lively theme song begin.

“You watch too?” Alex asked, loud and clear. Lestrade felt his heartstrings tug.

“Not now, I’m on an important call.”

“Otay!”

Lestrade heard rustling and then a door clicking shut. “Lestrade?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Sherlock coughed a bit then took another deep breath. “Look, the withdrawal is…a bit more intense than I’d originally anticipated. Mrs. Hudson’s sister took a heart attack, so she’s off seeing to her recovery for the next week or so. I was calling to see…if you would…mind watching Alexander for a day or so,” Sherlock said quickly, as though it had taken all his nerve to ask for a simple favor.

Lestrade mulled it over, but he knew that in spite of how he had promised to watch out or Sherlock, and how cute he thought Alex was, he probably wasn’t a suitable candidate. He’d always liked children, but the boy had seemed so frightened of him the first and only time they’d met—which was nearly a week ago to the hour. The last thing he wanted was to scare the child.

“I don’t mind, but he barely even knows me. Wouldn’t Mycroft be better?” Lestrade said.

 Sherlock managed a derisive laugh that devolved into a brief coughing fit. Once he recovered, he said “Hell will freeze over before I give my son to that fat bastard.” He paused and said, “I realize it’s a lot to ask…Never mind Lestrade, we’ll manage…”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade said shouted, hoping to catch him before he hung up and managing to inadvertently startle the cabbie.

“…yes?” Lestrade had never heard the man, or anyone for that matter, sound so pitiful. _Goddammit Greg_ , he thought to himself.

“What’s your address?”

* * *

Lestrade wasn’t sure whether or not to be surprised when he pulled up in front of Sherlock’s building. His poshy accent made him expect something nicer, but his admitted drug problem made the slightly weathered façade less shocking. Still, he’d seen worse places, especially in his line of work. He exited the cab and paid the driver.

He pushed open the door and headed up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, absentminded thinking the landlord could certainly stand to put a few lights in the dim stairwell. The smell of cigarettes was pervasive in the hallway, and there were newspapers piled up in front of one of the doors. He could hear the same cartoon theme blaring from what must be Sherlock’s flat, the second door on the third floor. Lestrade knocked loudly and waited. There was the sound of walking across creaky floorboards, then suddenly the door opened to reveal Sherlock, in the worst shape Lestrade had ever seen.

 His eyes were red-rimmed and had dark circles beneath them. His nose was red too, but the rest of his skin was sallow and slick with sweat. His inky hair was greasy and his paradoxically romantic curls were limp, their usual luster had vanished, making them look dusty and grey. His hands shook violently as he pushed the dirty hair out of his face.

“Ah, Lestrade,” he said, in a poor imitation of his usual imperious tone. “Won’t you come in?”

He stepped aside, leaning heavily on the wall as he opened the door wide enough for the detective to step through.

The flat was small, and sparsely furnished. There was a tiny kitchen in one corner, with an assortment of sugared cereal on a shelf by the refrigerator and a shameful number of dishes in the sink. There was a small bookshelf next to a desk that Sherlock was apparently using as a workspace, seeing as it was covered in beakers and glassware, all clean—he must not be doing any work now. There was even a kiddie microscope next to what must have been Sherlock’s. Across from the little kitchen were two doors, one that led to the only bedroom and one that led to the only bathroom.

Lestrade continued into the living room and peered curiously at the doodles and finger paintings that were tacked to the wall above the threadbare couch, where little Alexander sat. He wore a long sleeved purple shirt and little black corduroy overalls. The boy, unlike his father, looked fresh and clean. His curls looked damp and dripped intermittently onto the couch as he bobbed along to Sesame Street, munching on carrot sticks and animal crackers. He glanced at Lestrade as he entered the room, then turned back to his program.

“Nice place,” Lestrade commented mildly.

“It serves its purpose,” Sherlock said indifferently, as he staggered over and dropped onto the couch beside his son. Now that Sherlock had shut the front door, Greg could see the tick marks where Sherlock measured his son’s growth. Something deep within him twinged. Perhaps it was anger at Sherlock for having all this and still delving into drugs, but a small part of him knew it was jealousy.

He squashed the feeling as Sherlock nudged his son.

“Do you remember Detective Lestrade?”

Alex nodded, not looking away from the dancing puppets.

“Alexander.” Sherlock said, sounding firm enough even in his state to get his son’s attention. The boy turned and waved at Lestrade, whispering “Hi” with his mouth full of carrot.

Sherlock sat up with a barely suppressed groan. Lestrade had done some cursory research on cocaine withdrawal and found that it was like a bad flu, but the “other stuff” Sherlock had mentioned must be what troubled him so.

“Remember what we talked about? Why we packed your backpack?” Sherlock said, indicating the tiny green backpack leaning against the workbench.

The boy nodded as he swapped his carrot sticks for animal crackers. Sherlock let him take a few cookies before he took the container. Alex looked up indignantly.

“Why did we pack your backpack?”

Alex seemed to realize this was serious. “I go with Mastrade?” he said, eyeing the detective and his father warily.

“Yes, you’re staying with him for a few days. Won’t that be fun?”

“No.” the boy said, his eyes filling with tears.

Sherlock sighed. “No you don’t want to go, or no it won’t be fun?” he asked wearily.

“Not go.” Alex said, his bottom lip popping out into a full pout.

Lestrade could see a full-blown tantrum brewing, and he could see that the young father wasn’t up to dealing with it. He wanted to offer comfort, but he wasn’t sure who needed it most, and he wasn’t sure it was his place to intervene.

“Alexander,” Sherlock was saying, “You have to go, you knew that he was coming to get you.”

“Not go! Not go!” the toddler sobbed in the loudest voice Lestrade had ever heard him use as the tears began to fall. He tried to climb into Sherlock’s lap but Sherlock—despite his frail appearance—gently lifted him back onto the ground.

“Alexander, you _must_ go with Lestrade. I’m…sick—“ he chanced a look at the detective, who cleared his throat but didn’t break eye contact. “—you need to go with him until I’m better.”

Lestrade could hear the shame in his voice but all the little boy heard was that his father was handing him over to a perfect stranger. Once again, he tried to crawl into Sherlock’s lap and this time Sherlock ignored the body aches and the shakiness and let him, casting an unreadable look at Lestrade while Alexander cried softly.

Before he had a chance to think about what he was doing, Lestrade knelt and said, “Don’t you worry, little one, your daddy is coming with us.”

Sherlock’s head whipped up in surprise. He opened his mouth to reply, but the little boy spoke first, his face a mess of tears.

“Daddy can come?” he asked, addressing Lestrade in a voice above a whisper for the first time.

Lestrade’s heart warmed and he nodded, though he had no idea how it was going to work. Sure, he had two spare rooms at his place, but his wife would be furious and Sherlock probably was too, judging by the look on his face.

“Why don’t you finish your show,” Lestrade said gently, indicating the telly where Elmo sang on, obliviously. “I’m going to help your dad pack, and then we’re all going to mine, okay?”

Alex nodded vigorously, giving Lestrade a toothy grin. In spite of everything, Lestrade grinned back. The boy handed him a moist animal cracker, that had apparently been in the hand he’d used to wipe his tears. Lestrade took it, and did his best to hide his disgust, saying “Thank you, little man.”

Alex nodded again and settled back on the couch, shoving a cookie from the other hand into his mouth as a vampire looking thing began to count on screen.

Sherlock rose and stared at Lestrade, then brushed past him, waving him towards the back of the apartment. In the only bedroom Sherlock had a twin bed pushed against the far-left wall. There was a low-to-the-ground baby bed that looked far newer pushed against the right wall of the room. A chest of drawers stood between them.

Sherlock shut the door firmly then whirled on Lestrade.

“What the hell? I asked you to take him for a reason,” Sherlock hissed through chapped lips.

Greg held his hands up defensively.

“I know you don’t want him to see you like this, but trust me, it’s better this way. Now he won’t be left alone with a perfect stranger and he won’t be worried about you, and you won’t be worried about him.”

Sherlock looked away as a shiver took him. Greg knew Sherlock was used to being looked at by him as nothing more than a crime-solving genius, but Lestrade was no dummy. It was clear that Sherlock was ‘secretly’ a doting father. No matter how badly he wanted Alex out of the way for the worst of the withdrawals, he’d have been worrying.

“I wouldn’t have been that worried,” the younger man muttered. _I’ll take that as a complement,_ Lestrade thought passively.

"Well, regardless, this point still stands,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “The cravings are gonna set in soon and you might feel better if you—“

“I had a _babysitter?_ ” Sherlock snarled.

“If you had a friend.” Lestrade said simply.

The ferocity fled from Sherlock’s face and was replaced by a look of skepticism and confusion that Lestrade tried not to pity. It was quite within the realm of possibility that Sherlock hadn’t had a friend since Alex’s mother.

Sherlock looked like he was going to reply before the shakes struck again, and his expression morphed into one of pain.

Gently, Lestrade said “Pack enough for at least four days. You can do laundry at mine if you need to stay longer. I’ll go wait with Alex.”

He looked at the younger man as he recovered, then slowly nodded and moved toward the chest of drawers.

 

Lestrade headed back to the living room, absentmindedly eating the mushy cookie that he’d forgotten to throw away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long, originally this was part of one chapter but I decided to split it up, so I already have the next chapter planned. Hopefully I'll upload it soon. In the meantime, please let me know if you liked it!


	5. What About the Monsters?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade takes the boys home, and has an impromptu confrontation with is wife. But the withdrawal is only getting worse for Sherlock and mentally, it's beginning to take a toll...

_It should feel weird,_ Lestrade thought as he bundled little Alex into the right side of a waiting cab while Sherlock carelessly tossed their bags in from the left. Lestrade gave out his address while Sherlock sat tensely, watching as Lestrade did Alexander’s seat belt buckle. _It should feel weird,_ Lestrade thought, _but somehow it doesn’t._

Greg didn’t know if he was completely comfortable with the arrangement, though he himself had suggested both boys come back with him—but he wasn’t so put off as he might have imagined. Maybe it was because he was crazy or maybe it was because it was the right thing to do, helping a struggling genius and his young son. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. There would be no room for awkwardness in the days to come.

Sherlock would most likely be sore, shaky, anxious, moody, nauseous, paranoid, and all around even more difficult than Greg had ever witnessed before. No doubt he’d need lots of rest and probably a fair amount of supervision, as Lestrade had even less doubt that the cravings would be horrific. He glanced over at the young man, wondering if he’d see worry or trepidation lurking in his habitually impassive face. But Sherlock was facing the window, gazing at the scenery of London as it whipped by.

Greg then turned his attention to the smaller Holmes, who was “reading” a picture book and mumbling the alphabet song. He seemed in a far greater mood now that his father was along for the ride. Greg could only imagine how this ride might be different had he not convinced Sherlock to come along. The child was calm now, but Greg had learned long ago from watching his sister’s kids that a tantrum was never to be counted out. At least he seemed not to be so frightened of him anymore. He even leaned against him a bit as he turned the pages of his book.

“What book is that, Alex?” he asked, hoping to continue the friendly streak.

“Little Red Hen,” Alex said softly, not looking up.

“What’s it about?”

“A little red hen, obviously” Sherlock groused.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lestrade snapped back.

Alexander looked between them, then shrugged and turned the page and showed Lestrade a picture of a white bird. “A goose,” he said reverently.

Lestrade smiled in triumph as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s a nice goose, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, a nice goose,” Alex said blankly.

“Don’t dumb down your speech for him. Talk to him like he’s an adult,” Sherlock said, still looking out of the window but clearly paying attention.

“I’m not dumbing down, I’m talking to him like he’s a kid, because he _is_ a kid.:

“No, I big,” Alex said, the first sign of Sherlock’s genes poking through. “Talk big, like Daddy.”

Startled, but perhaps less than he should’ve been, Lestrade grinned and nodded. “Okay.”

Alex gave a short little nod. “Otay.” Then he turned back to his book. “A duck,” he said, showing Lestrade. Greg looked at Sherlock and shrugged, clearly wanting to engage the boy but all he knew was “talking down” to children and if he didn’t get the hang of things soon it was going to be a long detox. Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation and rolled his eyes for the third time since he got into the cab.

“What do you know about ducks, Alexander?”

Alexander looked up at his dad, questioning. Sherlock nodded toward Lestrade, his greasy curls unnaturally stiff despite the movement. “Tell Lestrade what you know about ducks.”

Alex looked at Lestrade then back at the ducks in his little picture book. Then he took a deep breath.

Lestrade spent the rest of the car ride listening to a surprisingly comprehensive lecture on ducks, their diets, their mating habits, and their ‘habimats’—which he could only assume was ‘habitat.’ It was incredible. It seemed that having a vast wealth of knowledge ran in the family, only Alexander’s vaults were less…murder-y…than his father’s. By the time they reached Lestrade’s house, the boy was telling Lestrade about he and Sherlock’s trip to the duck pond. Lestrade remembered the photo from Mrs. Hudson’s house. “Fun, right Daddy?” Alexander said, looking at his father.

Sherlock’s shakes had returned and he looked exhausted but he sat up from where he’d been lightly dozing against the window at the sound of Alex’s voice. He gave his son a smile and nodded. “That’s absolutely right Alexander, we had lots of fun.”

Alex beamed.

* * *

It is worth noting that Lestrade’s wife was beautiful. Wavy auburn hair, honey-brown eyes, long, shapely legs; he’d never had a chance. From the moment he saw her, he was smitten. Back then she loved that he cared about his career, but somehow his compassion and dedication to his job had gotten old. Especially because they’d had no children to give him more reason to come home, nor her someone to love while he was away. And over time, Jennifer Lestrade began to resent her husband’s work, and he began to resent her for making him feel guilty about doing his job. But to Jennifer, Greg’s job was a burden. It was one calamity after another, one more helpless victim that he prioritized over her, one more reason he wasn’t home.

So when the front door opened and she saw her husband half-dragging, half-carrying what was clearly some sob story he’d met on the job, her temper flared fiercely.

“What the hell is this?” she asked as her husband staggered through the door, a dirty man with shaking hands and dark, black hair slung over his shoulders.

“This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s…an associate, from work.”

“Daddy! I stuck!” came a little cry. Jenny’s eyes immediately snapped to the front door. Sher peered outside to see that a little boy with hair identical to that of this ‘Sherlock Holmes’ character was snagged on one of her rose bushes. Before she could open her mouth to question who the child was, Greg was dropping the dirty man onto the couch and dashing back out the front door to save the child from the shrubbery. When he returned he sat the boy next to the stranger, who was now sweating all over her recently reupholstered couch.

“Greg,” she said through gritted teeth. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

Lestrade sighed and steeled himself, then followed his wife into their small kitchen.

“Who the hell are they? What are they doing here?”

“I told you, that’s Sherlock Holmes, that kid I told you about from work and the little one is his son. He’s gotten into a tough spot, but he’s trying to make a change so I said they could stay here for a few days until he’s all sorted.”

“You’re letting a criminal into my house without even calling first?!” she all but shouted, barely restrained.

“No. I let a genius and a three-year-old into _my_ house because, frankly, I didn’t even know if you’d _be_ here.” He fired back, raising his voice as well. He did know that it was wrong not to at least call with fair warning, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with his suspicions of her infidelity but damn if she didn’t drive him mad. Where the hell did she get off, he barely saw her three times a week and all of a sudden, she wanted to claim he had no say over what happened in _their_ home.

She walked away from his veiled accusation in a huff, stalking into the living room to get her purse and jacket.

“Jenny,” he called as he followed her, partially out of obligation.

“No, if it’s _your_ house then it’s _your_ house and you can just bring home all the tramps and the riffraff you want. I’ll be at my sisters.”

“No, you won’t.” came a croaky voice from the sofa.

“Excuse me?” she said, cold fury lacing her tone like arsenic. She turned on her unwanted guest as Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. _Why can’t you ever shut up, you idiot?_ he thought.

“People usually pack some clothes, underwear, a toothbrush even, if they are going to stay with family. At the very least because they dislike feeling like an imposition or burden, especially on such short notice,” Sherlock said, turning partially to face her. “Now if the house you’re going to already held some of your clothes, underwear, and even a toothbrush…and the owner of said house would be thrilled about a sudden visit from a married woman rather than put out, that would make said person more of a… _lover_ …than a sister.”

Jenny stood there, shocked and appalled. The house was so quiet that Lestrade couldn’t even hear Jenny’s angry shouting still echoing in his head anymore. He’d told her about the things Sherlock could do, of course, though now it was apparent that she either hadn’t been listening or didn’t believe him. Either way, she was completely unprepared for the feeling of having her closely guarded secrets ripped from her mind and thrown back into her face. She didn’t know how to react, or, from the way she kept glancing at Greg, whether to deny it. Greg, however, knew a deduction from Sherlock Holmes was as good as catching them in the act.

“Maybe even a P.E. teacher,” Sherlock said, staring at her through tired eyes. It occurred to Greg that this was Sherlock’s idea of standing up for him, and though he’d been all but sure of her cheating and though he appreciated the effort, it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” he said tiredly. He looked back at Jennifer, who had tears in her eyes and still wore the look of pure shock that Lestrade had come to associate with all of Sherlock’s victims.

“Greg,” she whispered. “Baby, I—“

“Forget it, Jenny. Just go.”

She looked between her husband and the man on her couch. The former looked tired and resigned, and the latter looked ready to attack again. She shook her head and said, “Text me when your guests go home,” before leaving their house. Though, Greg noted sardonically, she was careful not to slam the door for the first time in a long time.

* * *

 

It was silent for a while before Alexander broke the spell.

“I not like her.”

Sherlock looked over at his son, then back at Lestrade. Apparently, deciding he’d said enough for one night, and perhaps because he was feeling poorly and looking worse by the minute, he said nothing. Instead, he switched his attention to Lestrade.

“It’s getting late, and Alexander hasn’t had dinner. I can give you some money if you want to order in…”

Seizing on the opportunity to change the subject, Lestrade shook himself and made his way over to the couch to sit beside the young man. “No need,” he said, leaning over to fetch his mobile from his back pocket. “I was getting a bit peckish myself. How about a pizza?” he asked the little boy, who had decided to occupy himself by dragging toys out of his backpack one by one and lining them up on the coffee table. There were several dinosaurs and even a rocket ship, though Greg had never heard Sherlock say a kind word about astronomy.

Upon hearing the change in tone, the child looked up, wide-eyed and curious. “Is it yummy?” he asked, with a head tilt that must have been genetic. It was the same head tilt he received whenever Sherlock had no idea what Greg was talking about.

“Wha—Sherlock how has he never had pizza before?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

“Why would I feed him something I don’t even like?” Sherlock griped in a tired voice.

“All kids like pizza.”

“I want pizza!” cried the boy, making his way over and crawling on the couch to settle between his father and the detective.

Nodding, Lestrade began to dial, deciding to order a simple pepperoni pizza. They watched a football game while they waited for the delivery. Well, Lestrade watched a football game. Alexander and Sherlock were both bored within five minutes and they decided to pass the time coloring and playing on their phone, respectively. When the pizza arrived, Sherlock ignored it to the ire of the detective, who was sure that the young man hadn’t eaten in at least a day. He shook off his irritation with Sherlock’s inability to care for himself, considering the withdrawal almost certainly had destroyed any appetite. Alex, on the other hand, tucked in with gusto, and Lestrade felt vindicated in his earlier declaration: all kids like pizza. The young boy did not like his crusts, however, and gave them to Sherlock with a “Daddy, you eat.” Lestrade was shocked to find that Sherlock dutifully nibbled until he felt Alexander fall asleep in his lap.

“Suppose I should show you to your rooms,” Greg said, indicating the sleeping child.

“Yes, I suppose,” Sherlock said, and though Lestrade expected sass, he discerned nothing but exhaustion in his voice.

Sherlock allowed the policeman to scoop up the toddler, then he pushed himself to stand with a groan. He swayed on his feet a bit, but nodded at Lestrade to indicate that he was fine and to ‘get on with it already.”

The detective led him down the dim hallway, lined with wedding photos that he stoically ignored. He was grateful that Sherlock didn’t mention them either. Part of him was still drained from airing his wife’s dirty laundry in front of Sherlock. Another part of him was deeply saddened at having her affair confirmed, and still another part of him was relieved that they were no longer pretending. Whatever he was feeling, he knew he needed to tuck it away so that he could address the current situation.

Sherlock Holmes was going to detox at his house, with no one present but his young son and a police officer with no significant medical knowledge beyond performing CPR. It must have seemed daunting to him, and Greg tried to hide his own apprehension, for Sherlock’s sake. He searched himself for a _feeling_ of some sort, some kind of emotion tied to the task that lay before him. But he found none, only a sense of urgency and commitment. He supposed it would do. After all, determination was inherently better that its alternative, apathy. Again, he forced himself not to think about his wife.

Sherlock watched from the door as Lestrade turned down the covers and—after removing his shoes and corduroy overalls—tucked the little boy in tight. He made his way over to Sherlock, who was looking at him curiously, and flicked the lights. Sherlock frowned and strode as best he could back in to the bedroom. He turned on a lamp that stood on the dresser in the simple room before coming back to stand with the policeman. “He’s afraid of the dark.”

They then moved Sherlock’s bag in to the other spare room. This one had a full-sized bed instead of the small twin in the room where Alexander slept. Lestrade stood in the doorway as Sherlock practically collapsed onto the bed and watched as he struggled to undo his laces with shaking hands. Finally, the young man removed his shoes and curled up on top of the covers.

“Do you think you’ll be alright for tonight?” Lestrade asked, and immediately regretted it. Of course he wouldn’t be “all right.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Lestrade said, a bit woodenly, before clearing his throat. “Do your best to get some sleep and call if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded and waved him away as another shudder took him for a moment. Lestrade waited until his stilled again before turning out the light. He was halfway to his own bedroom before he heard the click of the bedside lamp in Sherlock’s room turning on.

* * *

 

Lestrade had been lying awake in his bed for nearly an hour, listening to the silence of the house and his own monotonous breathing. He was beginning to contemplate a hunt for Jenny’s sleep aids when he heard footsteps hurrying toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

He sat up and listened harder before he heard the unmistakable sound of someone being violently ill.

For a moment, he didn’t know whether to help or to stay put. Sherlock wasn’t known for accepting help, even when he needed it. On the other hand, since when did Greg Lestrade sit around and wait for Sherlock to _ask_? Making his decision, he put on his slippers and well-loved dressing gown and walking quickly and quietly down to the bathroom.

Sherlock was shirtless, his back dotted with beads of sweat, each vertebra visible under the fluorescent lights of the small room as he heaved into the toilet. Greg was fairly certain Sherlock knew he was there, so he said nothing as he went to the sink and ran a face cloth under cool water for a moment. Then he went to sit on the edge of the tub. Lestrade wasn’t the self-congratulatory type, but he privately commended himself for not gagging on the stench.

He pressed the cloth onto the back of Sherlock’s neck, long ways so that it reached between his shoulder blades. Sherlock visibly tensed, the muscles in his back coiling beneath his skin, then relaxed for a moment before heaving again.

The two men said nothing for nearly half an hour, Sherlock of course, being occupied and Lestrade single-mindedly focused on offering any sort of comfort. Finally, Sherlock flushed and sat back. The bathroom was narrow enough that with one movement he was able to lean against the opposite wall. He seemed spent, breathing as thought he’d just run a marathon. Lestrade got up to get him a second towel, this time for his face.

When he handed it to Sherlock, he noticed tears in his eyes. Part of him thought it might be from exertion, but another part suspected something deeper.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked tentatively.

“How do you bloody think I’m feeling?” Sherlock asked in a low, roughened voice, not so much angry, just weary. His face was red, which was to be expected. But so were his ears, as though he were embarrassed.

Lestrade started to reply with something witty, to ease his discomfort, but Sherlock groaned and covered his face with his hands and released a shuddering sigh.

“I’m failing,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I knew I couldn’t do it but I tried anyway and now I’m failing.”

“Sherlock, withdrawal is difficult. It’s not something you can really _excel_ at. It seems tough now but you’re going to get through it.”

Sherlock dropped his hands and looked hard at the detective with bloodshot eyes. “You’d have made a good father.” He said, in the clearest voice he’d had all evening.

“What—“

“That’s what ended it between you in the end, isn’t it? No children?”

Lestrade felt himself getting angry and defensive. _Rightfully so,_ he thought. Every time someone tried to comfort the stupid genius he’d reach into their minds and throw the deepest fear, shame, or failure in their face just to get them off his back. He was only trying to help.

“I’m only trying to help,” Lestrade said, not bothering to remove the anger of his thoughts from his tone of voice. “You’re not _failing_ this is just part of detox…”

“I wasn’t talking about detox.”

Oh. _Oh._

“Sherlock, you’re a good father. If you weren’t, I’d have turned you in by now.”

“If I _were_ , you’d have nothing to turn me in _for_.” He said quietly, looking off into the far corner of the room, away from Lestrade. Lestrade took a moment to look away as well.

“Look,” he said finally. “The world is full of little injustices that I’m sure God thinks are hilarious.” Lestrade said after a time. “I can’t have kids and you think I’d make a good dad. I think you’re a good dad, and you won’t believe me.”

“Just because you can have children doesn’t mean you should. If anything, this just proves "God" is an idiot for giving Alexander a father like me,” Sherlock said, dropping his gaze to the floor. “You’ve met him, you’ve spent practically a whole day with him, albeit non-consecutively. He’s the smartest, kindest child there is. He doesn’t _deserve_ a father like me.”

Lestrade knew that detox made people emotional, but he had a feeling that this wasn’t just the withdrawal. Something about the way Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eye made him think that Sherlock truly believed that somehow, he was bad for his son—despite the fact that the child clearly adored him and that the feeling was obviously mutual. He shifted from his seat on the edge of the tub to sit beside Sherlock on the floor.

“Sherlock, you are a _good_ father. The measure of a man isn’t the mistakes he makes. It’s the heat of the hell he’s willing to go through to _correct_ his mistakes. Parents—hell, people for that matter—walk around fucking up all the time. Not everyone is strong enough to admit it, ask for help, or bear the consequences. You’ve done all that and more since I found out you even _had_ a son. Whether you believe me or not, you’re one of the best parents I’ve come across in a long time, and you’ll be even better once you’ve gotten clean and sober. Alexander is _lucky_ to have you.”

Regardless of the optics—a man going through withdrawal on the floor of a business associate’s bathroom—Sherlock Holmes was a good parent. Once he believed it, there’d be no stopping him or his son.

“Look, you’re right, I never got to be a dad,” Lestrade continued, around a lump in his throat. “But if I were, I’d hope I were as strong as you. Strong enough to be self-sacrificing for the good of my child.”

Sherlock finally met his gaze, and a small smile played on his lips, despite the fact that his hands were still shaking as he wiped his brow again. “Well, you’ve offered your home to a junkie and toddler, so if you weren’t strong, you’d at least be…kind,” Sherlock said, preparing to stand. “Thought the line between kindness and stupidity is quite thin,” Sherlock apparently couldn’t resist quipping as he got to his feet and tossed both towels into the dirty clothes bin.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and stood as well, stretching out an ache in his back as he went. Then he blinked and a mischievous grin crept to his face. “Hang on, did you just imply that I’m strong?” he said, as the two left the bathroom.

“I also implied that you’re stupid,” said Sherlock, without missing a beat as he headed to his room. “Good night, Lestrade.”

* * *

 

Lestrade had only been in bed for half an hour this time, and was actually on the brink of sleep. At least, before something small and warm climbed under the covers at the foot of the bed and slowly made its way to the top where Greg lay. Alexander’s little face popped out from under the convers, his curls flying wildly in every direction.

Greg pretended to be asleep. For some reason, he still had the smallest impression that the boy might still be a bit frightened of him and he didn’t want to startle him.

Alex then poked his face, apparently having inherited his father’s tact as well as his appearance. Greg cracked an eye.

“Everything okay, Alex?” he whispered.

“No,” he whispered back, at a volume only a child could manage.

“What’s wrong, then?”

Alexander looked around a fiddled with the sheets. “Daddy am not with me. And there might be monsters, maybe. What if them get him?” he asked seriously, his eyes locked firmly on Lestrade’s.

The detective sat up and regarded his pint-sized intruder. He looked so small, but genuinely worried, sitting cross-legged in his purple shirt and pull-ups. In the moonlight Greg could see his blue eyes staring intently at him, waiting for reassurance.

“Your dad is just not feeling well right now. But he’ll be better soon. In the meantime, we thought you should sleep in your own room.”

“I not _want_ my own room!” he shouted, still in his ‘whispering’ voice, his gaze never wavering. “’Cause what about the _monsters_? And what bout Daddy?”

“No monsters are coming for you or for your dad, and if they do, I’ll arrest them.” Alexander giggled. Greg grinned back, before tentatively petting the boy’s hair. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

In the that moment, Lestrade looked into the little face of Sherlock’s child and found trust, and he was even more committed to making sure that Sherlock got clean and that the two were never separated. He patted the pillow on the far side of the bed, where Jenny usually slept, and Alexander obediently laid down. Lestrade affectionately pulled the blankets up to his chin and said, “Okay?”

“Otay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment below and tell me what you think!


	6. Dinner and Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is getting better, and Alexander is getting antsy cooped up in the house, so he and Lestrade run out to get dinner, cake, and cold cases for Sherlock. And the toddler turns out to be quite the source of information...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College has started once again, so I apologize for how late this chapter is, event though there is no real schedule for this fic.

Lestrade had taken off Thursday and Friday to stay home with Sherlock and Alexander. By Monday, he figured, Sherlock would be over the worst of the withdrawal and would more than likely be ready to go home. Davidson and Donovan could handle things until then.

 Unfortunately, he didn’t anticipate how strong Sherlock’s genes were. Alexander was, as Sherlock had said, the sweetest, kindest child there was…at times. But he could be just as destructive as his father when confronted with boredom. By Friday night, he had broken a lamp, two mugs, and a picture frame. He’d pulled the toilet paper off of the roll several times. Earlier that day, he’s pulled every book off of the shelf and torn all the “boring parts” out of nearly every one before Lestrade caught him at it.

 Furthermore, despite Lestrade’s inauspicious success with the pizza that first night, Alexander was also a picky-eater. Greg had assumed that Sherlock was immature in some ways, after all he was only twenty years old. He quickly learned, however, that he’d given Sherlock’s maturity level far too much credit. Both Sherlock and Alexander would eat desserts all day if they could, they both sulked when things didn’t go their way, and they were both keen on instant gratification.

In many ways, Sherlock was the parent every kid dreamed of. He saw everything from Alexander’s perspective and rarely saw fit to discipline or intervene in his son’s activities, unless they would harm the boy himself. Sherlock had actually been _in the room_ whilst his son ripped up Lestrade’s books, and had simply watched on while nursing a cup of tea. Upon being confronted, his defense was that he agreed that the books were boring and “could not in good conscience demand that Alexander respect the dull.”

 And so, it was on Friday evening, that all three boys were at the end of their wits with a touch of cabin fever. Alexander was by far the most antsy, but, Lestrade suspected, that was only because Sherlock’s body aches and muscle cramps prevented him from fully joining in on his son’s endeavors to wreak havoc on Lestrade’s literature and toiletries. Were the young detective at his full strength, Lestrade would have _two_ gremlins on his hands. As Lestrade attempted to tape the pages that had remained intact back into the books, Sherlock sighed, “You should take him for a walk or to the library or something.”

“I think it’s been established that he can’t be trusted around books,” Lestrade griped as a piece of scotch tape got tangled around his fingers for the fourth time. Despite himself, he glanced toward the back of the house, where Alexander was napping.

“He can be trusted around _respectable_ books. ‘ _The Bard and the Brothel-keeper_ ,’ really, Lestrade?”

“That’s Jenny’s,” he grumbled as he put the offending item back on the shelf. “She has an obsession with romance novels.”

“And yet you truly thought that relationship would last?”

 Lestrade grit his teeth. He’d learned how Sherlock operated by now. Riling people up was one of his tricks, a means to get his way. He thought that if he pushed enough of the right buttons, people would give in to his demands, just to shut him up. Secure in this knowledge—and perhaps, partially out of spite—Lestrade said nothing, letting the low volume of some crap telly show speak for itself.

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock said, as if the intensity of the silence had pushed it out of him. “I’ll order Chinese when he wakes up from his sleep. You can take him to go and get it.”

Lestrade eyeballed him through a narrowed gaze.

“No tricks, and I’ll pay,” Sherlock said earnestly as he stared back at the older man. He sat up, his arms trembling slightly, but he did look much more coherent than the day before. “He’s not used to being stuck indoors for days on end. He has to find new information to process, new surroundings. The same old data is frustrating him, that’s why he’s acting out.”

 Lestrade didn’t pretend to understand. Some of what Sherlock said made sense, at least from the passing comments he made about how his own incredible mind worked. But Lestrade certainly wasn’t going to try to trick himself into believing he understood _any_ of the Holmeses.

“Fine, you pay, and me and Alex will go get the food,” he said, as he resumed taping his wife’s books back together.

 Sherlock sat back, drumming his fingers on his knee as he idly switched his gaze from Lestrade’s task to the television and back again. Lestrade could tell that Sherlock was getting restless as well. He looked up from yet another romance novel, intending to invite the young man along to pick up dinner. But suddenly Sherlock rose with a grunt, his face having turned a slightly sickly shade of green, and walked briskly down the hall toward the bathroom. Lestrade sighed.

“You need me in there?”

“No,” came the faint but curt reply as the door swept shut.

Lestrade paused his futile taping, listening intently for any signs of distress despite Sherlock’s refusal. When he heard the toilet flush, he went back to his task, idly wondering if his favorite Chinese place served anything that would be easy on Sherlock’s stomach.

 

It was nearly time for Alexander to wake, so Lestrade went into his bedroom to change while Sherlock ordered their dinner. Despite Sherlock’s assurances, Lestrade was nervous about leaving him alone. Without any sufficient outlet for his restless mind, Lestrade shuddered to think what the young father may resort to in the short time it would take to retrieve dinner. _I’ve never been so worried about something so mundane_ , he thought. But knowing Sherlock, he could return to find him snooping through his things, or to find a fire in his kitchen. _He could take off and relapse_ , his mind supplied darkly, despite his best effort not to think about the worst-case scenario.

 Suddenly he had a brilliant idea. Sherlock had said “no tricks.” Surely if he could be trusted just a while longer tonight, their problems would be solved. He and Alexander could stop by the Yard on the way home and grab a few cold cases for Sherlock to work on. It’d only add a few minutes to their journey, and it’d keep Sherlock occupied through the weekend. He pulled out his phone and called Davidson, and left a voicemail requesting that the other detective pull a few cold cases and leave the files in his office. Satisfied, he bent to tie his shoe and headed back to the living room.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but the front door was open. Suddenly he was stricken with panic, a freezing hand gripping his heart. He forced himself not to hurry, and after making his way to the door he saw Sherlock, sitting on the front step with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Relieved, he controlled his breathing and joined him, realizing with a slight annoyance that Sherlock had stolen _his_ pack. He wordlessly took a cigarette and threw the package back at the younger man, but held his hand out in silent demand for the lighter. Sherlock acquiesced and the two smoked in silence.

* * *

 

Alexander woke up and the house was silent. He still got a little nervous at Mastrade’s house, even though Mastrade was nice. He said that Daddy needed the house to be quiet, because he was sick, but it was almost never quiet at home. Quiet was boring.

Sometimes when Alexander woke up at home, his dad would greet him happily from the kitchen table where he made science. He would talk very fast and explain what was happening, and lift him up onto the table so he could see. Sometimes Daddy would take a nap too, and Alexander would wake up before him. On those days, he just read, or played with his toys and didn’t ask for TV, because Daddy could be a grouch if he woke up too soon. Since they got to Mastrade’s house, Daddy took lots of naps. Alexander tiptoed out into the living room just in case.

He got scared when he saw that the house was empty. “Daddy?” he called, tentatively. No answer.

“Mastrade?” he said a little louder.

Suddenly the front door opened a crack and Mastrade’s voice called out: “We’re outside, Alex!”

Alexander grinned and hurried to the door. He liked it when Mastrade called him Alex, he was the only one who did. At first, he wasn’t sure if he liked it, but now it made him feel special. He stopped short at the door, having forgot his shoes. Daddy never let him leave the house without shoes. Sometimes there were pointy things in the halls, and Daddy said he was never to touch them.

“It’s okay, Alexander, you can come onto the porch without shoes. Lestrade keeps a surprisingly clean stoop.” His dad called, smoke coming out of his mouth. He didn’t like the way the smoke smelled, but Daddy looked happy today. Alexander walked toward them, still a little sleepy. He moved his father’s lighter out of his lap and sat down, nuzzling in. Sherlock heaved a sigh and put out his cigarette. Daddy always said the smoke was bad for him, but Alexander never understood why it was good for Daddy. “Are you hungry, Alexander?”

Alex nodded, feeling the vibrations in his dad’s chest as he talked and sniffing his t-shirt. It smelled like smoke, but also like Mrs. Hudson. Sometimes they did their washing at her house and it always smelled like flowers for a long time afterwards.

“Alexander were you listening?”

“No.” he said honestly. Daddy never got mad when he forgot to listen.

“Lestrade is going to take you to pick up some Chinese for dinner.” Sherlock said, looking down at him. “Alright?”

“You come too?” he asked, glancing at Mastrade.

“No, I’m staying here. But it should be ready soon, so you’ll need to find your shoes.”

“Is it the yucky kind?” Alexander asked.

His father rolled his eyes and petted his hair. “I have no interest in having this argument again, so I just got plain rice and a fried egg for you.”

“Good,” little boy said, settling back in. His father kept petting his hair, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Hair-petting was one of his favorite things, it always meant Daddy was in a good mood because Daddy didn’t always like to be touched. Neither did he. When Sherlock pet his hair and Alexander let him, it was a good day.

* * *

 

Lestrade checked his watch. “Nearly 6 o’clock,” he said. He didn’t want to end the little moment of peace. Sherlock was clearly feeling stronger, the physical aspect of withdrawal and detox finally waning. No longer racked with pain at any given moment, his son on his lap—he looked content. But Lestrade knew that they would have to head out soon if they wanted to have time to go to the Yard. “Alex, go grab your socks and shoes and we’ll head out, alright?”

Sherlock stopped carding his fingers through the little boy’s hair and set him upright. “Otay,” Alex said, glancing back as Sherlock pulled another cigarette out of the pack and lit it.

“Get a jacket as well, Alexander, it will be cold by the time you get back,” Sherlock said around his cigarette. Alexander nodded and hurried into the house.

 

They decided to take the tube there, and get a cab on the way back if Alexander was tired. But that didn’t seem to be a possibility, as the little boy was clearly happy to be outside the house and moving around. Any fears Lestrade previously held about Alexander not liking him had vanished, as the boy happily held his hand and dragged him up the street, asking all kinds of questions, mostly involving the word “why?”

“Why am he wearing that?” he asked, pointing to a man in a woman’s coat.

“Why it am closed, it’s still daytime” he said, in reference to a nightclub that hadn’t yet opened.

“Why do I not get a big hat?” he asked as a turbaned Sikh walked by, smiling at them as he passed. Lestrade answered as many questions as he could, but it seemed Alexander was more thinking out loud than he was seeking actual answers.

 They made it to the restaurant without any issue. It was relatively busy, but not surprisingly so for a Friday evening. There were couples on their first date, an older woman out with her family. There was an aquarium in the back that Alexander attempted to run to, but Lestrade held him back and promised they would take a look before they left. He kept one eye on Alexander as he talked with the owner, as the child was quite keen on all the decorations in the restaurant and evidently willing to take off at any moment. He shuddered to think what might happen to him if he lost Sherlock Holmes’ son—or worse, _Mycroft_ Holmes’ nephew.

“That lady am sad.” Alex said, tugging on Lestrade’s arm and pointing to the older woman sitting at a booth with her daughter and grandchildren.

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked with a smile as the owner went in the back to finish their order. The pair took a seat at an unoccupied table near the aquarium.

“’Cause Daddy says when a old lady wears a necklace like that, she am a sad wife or a sad mummy,” Alex said patiently, still pointing to the faded dog-tags around the woman’s neck.

“Your dad is probably right,” Lestrade said, glancing more subtly than his three-year-old counterpart.

“Yeah, Daddy am smart. He knows everything.” Alexander said, nothing but awe in his voice.

 As they waited, a question formed in Lestrade’s mind, and it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t ask the toddler, but… _nothing ventured, nothing gained_ , he thought.

“Alex, what do you know about _your_ mummy?”

“She am dead,” the boy said, without hesitation but with a slightly somber quality to his young voice. He stood on a chair so that he could see the fish, Lestrade lightly gripping his little belt loops so that he didn’t fall.

“Is that all you know about her? What about what she looked like?”

“Daddy doesn’t talk ‘bout Mummy that much, just sometimes,” he said, staring at the fish as they rose and fell in a gracefully uncoordinated dance. “I think Mummy is probly pretty. She singed to me one time. I think she had a nice voice.”

The owner returned with their order, and Lestrade rose to take the bag from him.

“Do you remember that?” Lestrade asked. To his credit, he tried to reign in his questions, aware that if Alexander didn’t know much about his mother it was probably Sherlock’s intention. He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries, but he could hardly be blamed for being curious.

“Yes. I do not ‘member Mummy’s face ‘cause I was little, but she singed one time,” Alexander said, and thankfully he seemed unbothered by this line of questioning. Lestrade decided not to press his luck. He left a generous tip in the jar and the pair headed out into the darkening street.

 

They passed a cake shop and Alexander dropped Lestrade’s hand so quickly that the policeman looked around to see if anything was wrong.

“We can get a cake please? Cakes make Daddy laugh!” he said, his hands and face pressed against the glass of the patisserie as he stared at the colorful desserts in the window.

“Why does cake make your dad laugh?” Lestrade asked, more puzzled than he had been all day.

“’Cause it ahminds him of Uncle Myc’oft!” Alex said, bursting into a fit of laughter himself. It was contagious, and soon Lestrade found himself leading the giggling child into the shop.

Alexander picked out an assortment of cupcakes, saying “They am baby cakes! ‘Cause I small!” The saleswoman laughed as he ran back and forth in front of the glass, and once he was satisfied with his half dozen she turned to box them up.

Once again, Lestrade found himself curious about Sherlock and Alexander’s relationship with the rest of their family. And once again, Lestrade wrestled with the ethics of using a child to get information. But it wasn’t as though he has some nefarious intent, and it _certainly_ wasn’t as though Sherlock was very forthcoming with information. After they collected their cake, Lestrade decided it’d be faster to take a cab to the Yard and then back home, and luckily there was one standing just outside. He and Alexander climbed in and he told the cabbie to take them to Scotland Yard.

 

“Is that the name of your house?” Alex asked, kicking his feet as they dangled over the edge of the seat.

“No, it’s where I work. It’s where I met your dad—sort of, and where I met your uncle.”

“Oh.” Alex said, looking out of the window.

“How much do you know about your uncle?” Lestrade asked casually.

“A little bit. Him and Daddy am brothers but they am not friends,” Alex said, equally casually. “Sometimes he comes over and Daddy makes him leave.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lestrade said, letting that sink in.

“Yeah. But sometimes, him brings me presents!”

“Like at Christmas?”

“Yeah! And on my birfday,” Alexander said, apparently now bored of the window. He began kicking his feet again.

“What about your grandparents? Your dad’s Mum and Dad. Do they give you presents?”

“Yeah, we have to go to them’s house on Christmas. Grandpa ahtends to pull money out of my ears and Grandma makes yummy food but her gives bad presents. Just clothes. Mycie gives good presents.”

Lestrade found himself smiling despite himself. “Does he now?”

“Yep. Daddy says it is because he is rich and he needs to buy love.”

Lestrade bit back a laugh. “Your grandparents don’t need to buy love?”

“No. But Daddy does not like them that much either.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep. Sometimes, them call and make him make me talk to them. And then Daddy gets mad. So sometimes now they call Mrs. Hudsons and then I talks to them.”

He jolted as if electrocuted, and his eyes grew wide as he suddenly whipped around to turn to Lestrade. “Do not tell Daddy! They said it am a secret!”

Lestrade grinned. “My lips are sealed.”

 

It took less than no time to run in and grab the box of cold cases from his office. He’d have to thank Davidson when he saw him on Monday. Alexander seemed vaguely interested in the Yard, but much more keen to go home and eat.

When they arrived, they found Sherlock on the couch, dozing. Alexander went up and patted his face until he woke up, momentarily disoriented until Alexander loudly mentioned food and cake.

“Daddy! Wake up, I am back!”

“Good, you were gone a long time. It’s a wonder I didn’t starve to death.”

“Daddy, you said that takes a whole week.”

They dug in, Alexander describing everything about the restaurant and the cake shop to Sherlock in perfect detail. He talked about the Yard, and Lestrade indicated the box of cold cases by the door. Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up and he actually looked excited.

 

Alexander ate half of a red velvet cupcake before falling asleep in his chair, full of rice and a fried egg. Sherlock volunteered to carry him to bed himself, as good an indication as any that he was regaining his strength.

Upon his return, he finished off Alexander’s cake and thanked Lestrade for the cold cases before heading to bed himself. Lestrade tidied the kitchen, grabbing a cake for himself before putting the rest in the refrigerator and turning out the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed, I attempted to kind of change perspective for a bit, show some more of what Alexander is thinking to spice things up. Please let me know if it worked for you and I may try it again in later chapters.
> 
> And as always, please let me know if you just enjoy the story!


	7. Homegoing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Alexander head home, their absence bittersweet. Sherlock gets some exposure for his private detective business, and things are looking up. But a visit from Mycroft Holmes? That almost never means good news.

Sherlock had taken to the cold cases, attacking them and solving nearly every one with a voracity and tenaciousness that Lestrade had rarely seen within his own division. As his strength grew, he was no less strange or callous. But he morphed into a version of himself that was somehow more responsible—relatively—and had even promised to reign in Alexander’s more destructive tendencies while Lestrade was out of the room.

It occurred to Lestrade on Sunday afternoon, while he watched Alexander color at the kitchen table and Sherlock solve a cold case, that he had never seen Sherlock _outside_ of the grips of his addiction. He’d encountered the young man at times when he was drunk, high, on the verge of a come down, and now in throes of withdrawal but never _sober_. And momentarily he was given pause. Sober Sherlock was an unknown. And while Lestrade was no longer worried that he would take off, or break onto a crime scene in a fevered high, he wondered what he _would_ do. Never would he trick himself into believing that Sherlock could be considered “predictable” or even “mature.” He was a giant child with a giant brain and an even bigger ego. But Alexander seemed to soften all those edges, as if Sherlock wanted to be more than himself for the sake of his child. Yesterday, Sherlock had actually made his son eat a vegetable that wasn’t a carrot stick. Alexander had seemed as surprised as Lestrade.

Tomorrow the pair of them would head home, and Sherlock had promised to “make an effort not to be unreasonably rude” if Lestrade called to check up on him. And he would check up on him. The last of the physical symptoms of withdrawal were wearing off, but the psychological aspect were what led most heavy users to relapse. Powerful cravings would lurk in the recesses of the younger man’s mind for weeks, rearing their heads at inopportune moments. Lestrade had made it very clear that Sherlock was to call if he ever felt out of his depth, an order at which he initially scoffed at but eventually conceded to, after being subjected to a deadly glare from the policeman.

He was brought out of his thoughts by an enthusiastic “Mastrade!” from the kitchen. Alex was waving him over, a bright smile on his little face. Alexander was another unknown. He was a great kid, adorable and intelligent without a doubt. Lestrade found himself agreeing with Mrs. Hudson—he didn’t know where Alex got his sweet nature. The boy had just enough naiveté to have been left out of most of this nonsense, and Sherlock made it clear that it was to remain that way. He never wanted Alexander to know the truth of this period in their lives, and Lestrade couldn’t blame him. But would Sherlock really be able to keep this from his son forever? And was it really best that he be kept in the dark? Perhaps one day, he’d want to know what Sherlock went through for him. But it wasn’t his place, and it was a problem for another time.

“What have you got there, Alex?” Lestrade said, making his way over to the kitchen table. Alex shuffled coloring pages around, looking for one in particular. He nearly broke another mug as he pulled a sheet out from underneath it. Lestrade was too slow to react, watching it tumble off the edge of the table only to be caught by Sherlock, whose attention never strayed from the crime scene photos he scrutinized. “Careful, Alexander,” he muttered distractedly as he peered at the reports.

“Oops, sorry Daddy. Here, Mastrade! It am for you!” the boy said loudly, and Lestrade was momentarily assaulted with bright colors. He looked at the drawing. It was a torn-out coloring page of a policeman, and Alexander had drawn himself and his father into the background. The policeman had grey hair, and he was smiling as he showed off his messily-colored badge. The image of Sherlock was a long black rectangle—which Lestrade assumed was meant to be his trademark coat—with a smiling face and big black squiggles for hair. The drawing of Alexander was a short black rectangle with smaller brown squiggles for hair. There was also an enormous anthropomorphic cupcake that Alex’s self-portrait was holding hands with, for some reason.

Alex was looking at him with wide, pleading eyes, and Lestrade was momentarily filled with emotion. He remembered when he met Alex that first night, nearly two weeks ago. The boy wouldn’t even speak above a whisper to him. Now he was being called by name and given drawings. An illogical sense of pride overcame him, and he smiled as wide as the child.

“It’s great, Alex. I love it.” The boy looked ready to explode with the praise.

“Then you’re really going to love this,” Sherlock said, handing him an old case file. The date said 1979.

“Jesus, that’s a _really_ old case.” Lestrade remembered flipping through it once before. A man, Jeff Ramsey, had been killed in an office building, working late at the editing office for _The Telegraph_. His body was found before dawn, cause of death was listed as blunt force trauma. Everyone looked at his business rivals, but each of them had had solid alibis. “Have you solved it?”

“Of course. The janitor, simple enough.”

“The janitor?” Lestrade said, incredulously.

“Yes, the janitor, Benjamin Neely. Everyone overlooked him because he was old, frail. But he had access to all the rooms in the building. He had diabetes, thus access to insulin. Likely subject to frequent verbal abuse from Ramsey, a known snob and elitist. He slips in at night, poisons Ramsey—who clearly had a drinking problem and was too drunk at the time to realize what was happening or fight him off. Then Neely drops something heavy on his head—presumably Ramsey’s cliché bust of Winston Churchill, cleans it with the tools from his janitorial cart and is on his way.”

Lestrade stared, dumbfounded. “You got all that from just the file?”

“Lestrade, don’t you know me by now?”

* * *

 

The next morning, Lestrade woke not to his alarm clock but to the sound of crying. Wailing, actually. He checked the clock, 7:41 am. Sighing, he put on his dressing gown and slippers and made his way down the hall. He could hear Sherlock’s muffled voice over the sound of Alexander’s cries.

“Alexander, stop. You know that we have to go back home today. Lestrade has to work, and—“

“No! We live with Mastrade now!”

“No, we _live_ at our flat, we were just visiting for a while.”

“No!”

Lestrade pushed the door open and took in the sight of Alex and Sherlock in a Mexican standoff. Sherlock was partially turned away from where he was packing up Alexander’s overnight bag, and Alexander was a mere four feet away, stomping his feet as tears streamed down his face. Sherlock was already dressed, and after getting used to the young man in T-shirts (which Lestrade had never even had the slightest indication that Sherlock owned until he’d come to stay with him), it was a welcome shock to see him in a blue button-down shirt and tailored jeans. It was like he was his poshy self again, not an addict keeping up appearances.

Alexander on the other hand, was not quite so well-dressed, or even dressed at all. He wore nothing but his pull-ups and a bright green shirt with a bear on it. His legs and feet were bare and his hair formed a dark brown cloud that framed his bright red face. 

Sherlock sighed. “Alexander, I promise we will visit Lestrade soon. But he has things to do and so do we. Don’t you want to go to the museum today?”

Alexander stopped wailing long enough to swallow audibly. “No, I wanna go to the Backyard with Mastrade.”

“What?”

Lestrade walked fully into the room, prompting both father and son to turn their attention toward him as he approached. He tried not to let the synchronization of twin blue eyes unnerve him.

“He means Scotland Yard, we went by to pick up the case files.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, turning back to Alexander as the boy ran to Lestrade and threw himself into the air. The older policeman caught him just in time, tears and snot seeping into his shirt.

“Not want to leave,” came the muffled sob. Lestrade found his heart breaking. He’d come to think of both Sherlock and Alexander as his surrogate sons, and despite all the breakages and pilfered cigs, he found himself reluctant to let them leave also. Mycroft’s words rang in his ears, and he thought that the harder he held on, the worse it would be in the long run for the little family. So he helped Sherlock wrestle Alexander into a tiny pair of jeans and waved them off as the cab drove away.

* * *

 

He waited until Wednesday to call Sherlock. Partially, yes, to check up on him, but also to tell the young man that he was to be published. After Sherlock solved the Ramsey case, Ramsey’s widow, who still worked for the paper, insisted on publishing a puff piece about the solving of her late husband’s murder. Lestrade had taken the interview himself, but was sure to give Sherlock full credit. He knew that when Sherlock wasn’t solving crimes with the Yard or spending time with Alex, he was trying to make a living as a private detective. Lestrade was sure it’d be helpful to the young man to get his name out there.

He waited until he’d gotten home, vaguely aware that though he’d left Jenny a voicemail to tell her that Sherlock and Alexander had gone home, he’d seen hide nor hair from her since Sherlock’s revelation; though, her sister called not an hour later to tell him that Jenny was indeed staying with her. He didn’t know whether Laurie was simply covering for her or if Jenny had actually been guilted into going to stay with her sister rather than the “P.E. teacher,” but he didn’t care. He knew that the next time he saw his wife, ‘divorce’ would be the only topic of conversation, and despite how hurt he felt, he really wasn’t ready to have that talk with her.

So instead, he phoned Sherlock to give him the good news, see about his recovery, and maybe say ‘hi’ to his son.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” The young man answered on the fourth ring, his voice echoing.

“Sherlock? Hey, it’s me.”

“I know, I _do_ have caller ID,” Sherlock said snobbishly. The corner of Lestrade’s mouth twitched upward, good-naturedly.

“Who that is?” came Alexander’s voice over the sound of water splashing. By the sound of it, they must be in the bathroom.

“It’s Lestrade.”

“Hi, Mastrade!” the little boy yelled at the top of his lungs, prompting a chuckle from Lestrade. “Daddy, make it loud.”

“You mean put it on speaker?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and Lestrade could practically hear his eyes rolling. The acoustics suddenly changed as Sherlock fulfilled his son's request.

“Alexander, be very careful not to accidentally knock the phone into the water.”

“Okay, I be careful,” the boy promised solemnly as splashing continued.

“Have I interrupted bath time?” Lestrade asked, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he took a beer out of the refrigerator and made his way toward the couch.

“Yes. Alexander is determined to ensure that my silk shirt is irreparable.” Sherlock griped, though there was no real malice in his tone.

Lestrade nearly choked on his drink. “Who wears a silk shirt to bathe a child?”

“What _exactly_ did you call for?" Sherlock snarked exasperatedly. "Because if it’s fashion advice, you should consider the fact that you only own _three_ ties before continuing with this line of— “

“I called to ask how you were feeling. And to tell you to buy a copy of _The Telegraph_ tomorrow, Ramsey’s widow is running a story about you.”

There was a pause. “About me?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“Yeah, her name’s Helen Ramsey and she worked for the same newspaper. I gave her a call on Monday after you all left to tell her that her husband’s murder had been solved, and she asked for details. I told her that you were the consultant who was responsible for solving the case, and she asked what details she could release in a small page in tomorrow’s issue. I figured you could use the exposure, since you double as a private detective. I didn’t give her your number, just a link to your website.” Lestrade said, though now as he was relaying the facts, he was a little concerned that he should have asked Sherlock before giving Mrs. Ramsey any of his information.

His concerns were abated when Sherlock said, “…Thank you, Lestrade…that was…kind of you,” almost bashfully.

“Yeah well, you know,” Lestrade said, suddenly floundering and equally embarrassed, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He was saved by Alexander’s interruption.

“Out now, Daddy, I am wrinkled!”

“No, you still have spaghetti sauce in your hair,” Sherlock said before turning his attention back to the detective. “Lestrade, I…appreciate the reference you gave me, and I’m doing well, but Alexander _insists_ on trying to escape the bathtub— “a faint ‘no I not!’ could be heard over the increasing splashing sounds— “so I’m afraid I’ll have to call you back some other time,” the young father finished up. The unmistakable sound of water making hitting the tile floor came over the earpiece.

“Of course, of course. Good-bye, Alex. Sherlock.”

“Bye-bye!” came a high-pitched scream just before the line cut out. Lestrade sighed contentedly and turned on the telly.

* * *

 

By Friday, Lestrade was nearly back in the swing of things. He’d read the article about Sherlock, and he thought it was quite flattering.

_“A young man named Sherlock Holmes, who consults for Scotland Yard was instrumental in solving my husband’s brutal homicide. According to a source within the police force, he is quite adept at spotting clues and deductive reasoning and I’d like to personally thank him for his involvement in Jeff’s case. Should any of our readers have need for a private detective, Holmes can be contacted via the following website…”_

Now it seemed that Sherlock’s private detective career could truly take off. Now that he’d had a positive public reference and was no longer encumbered by the drugs, Lestrade thought the young man would be unstoppable.

Which is why he was concerned when a shiny, black town-car pulled up beside him as he was leaving the Yard that evening. A town-car meant Mycroft, and Mycroft—apparently—only ever came around when something had gone or was about to go horribly wrong.

Sure enough, the windows rolled down and Mycroft Holmes’ face turned toward him. The top half of his face was shadowed by the deep tint of the other windows, making him look sinister as he spoke. “Detective Lestrade, won’t you join me for a meal?”

Greg hated the way Mycroft phrased everything as though it were a question even though they both knew he had no choice. With a deep sigh, he hefted his bag and climbed into the empty seat next to his clandestine companion. The car took off, and Lestrade turned to Mycroft, now fully visible.

“So, what’s all this then?” he asked.

“A thank you. I’ve noticed Sherlock’s progress and I’m quite impressed with both of you.” Mycroft said, in that voice of his. Even when he was just chatting, it felt like he was sifting through your mind, learning everything about you.

“Thanks, I guess,” the detective said, unsure.

“No guesswork required. I mean what I say.” Lestrade bit back a snort—how often was _that_ true?

“My nephew seems to have taken quite a liking to you as well.” Mycroft said, his eyes and voice were unreadable, but Greg’s gut told him that Mycroft was jealous.

“He’s a sweet kid,” Lestrade said, remembering the little coloring that now sat proudly behind his desk, in the window of his office.

“That he is," Mycroft said, delicate eyebrow raised. He crossed his legs, apparently signaling a change in the topic of conversation. "I realize Sherlock would not have told you much, but how much do you know about Victoria Trevor, James’ mother?”

“Only as much as Alex knows, and what Sherlock told me last time you kidnapped me,” he said, accusation light—but present—in his tone.

Mycroft Holmes smiled, and even though Greg knew he was human, his smile always reminded him of a ventriloquist doll. Stiff, and painted on, like it was something to fulfill an expectation but not truly voluntary.

“Oh, now Detective, this is not a kidnapping. Think of it as a business dinner, wherein I must discuss something extremely important albeit very private with you. It’s nothing sinister, and I shan’t keep you long, you have my word.” He then turned to look out of the window, as though signaling that the conversation was over until they got to wherever this ‘business dinner’ was to take place.

Lestrade too turned to look out of the window. He felt that Sherlock was rubbing off on him, and not in a good way. Because despite the uneasy feeling he got just from being in Mycroft’s presence, he was desperately curious to see what it was the man wanted to discuss. So he steeled his nerves and forced himself for what could not possibly be good news.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for taking ages to upload this chapter. Midterms were very nearly the death of me and they're still not over, but I'm excited that we're getting closer and closer to the preview in the first chapter. 
> 
> I hop you enjoyed this new chapter and if you did, please comment and let me know!


	8. Victoria Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade has dinner with Mycroft Holmes, and his curiosity regarding Victoria, ALexander's mother, is finally satisfied. But perhaps, the truth is more than he bargained for? Not to mention the threat that looms over Sherlock's newfound happiness in the form of Victoria's parents...

When the car stopped, Greg stepped out without waiting for the chauffeur to open his door, He looked around. He first noticed he was in a part of London so swanky he didn’t even think his shoes were fit to touch the sidewalk. Then he noticed the restaurant. Big, ornate windows, a beautiful, columned façade, and a rooftop patio lit with string lights. As he looked through the windows, Greg could even see a string quartet serenading the diners—if he looked past the man wearing an actual monocle.

Mycroft had gotten out of the car by now and tossed a surprisingly informal ‘Come along, Gregory’ over his shoulder before striding toward the heavy, mahogany doors. Lestrade scrambled to catch up, sure that if he fell behind, the poncy doorman who looked down his nose at him as he passed the threshold would have him tossed out for cheapening their image.

The staff took their coats and Mycroft didn’t even stop at the maître d’s podium. He simply walked inside, toward a door with golden plaque marked “Reserved.” No one tried to stop him, so Greg followed. He ignored the eyes of the patrons, though he felt their stares burning a hole into the back of his head. He was suddenly aware of the fact that this was one of his shabbier shirts, and of how far away the door actually was. _Does he just keep a room here?_ Lestrade wondered, subconsciously mimicking Mycroft’s stiff posture and keeping close behind him.

* * *

 

Inside Mycroft’s private room was a rich, medium-sized ebony table with only two chairs and two place settings facing each other in the middle, though the table could have comfortably seated eight or even ten. A butler stood in the corner waiting to be called upon, and the ornate wall sconces probably cost more than his mortgage. The carpet was a deep burgundy, as were the velvet walls. Greg suddenly had the absurd errant thought that he was inside a red velvet cupcake, prompting him to remember Alexander’s declaration: “Cake makes Daddy laugh…it reminds him of Uncle Mycroft!” A giggle that he didn’t quite catch in time escaped.

Mycroft looked at him curiously but said nothing. He gestured at the chair closest to the door, indicating the Greg should take a seat. He did, and as soon as Mycroft was also seated a litany of servers came through a doorway in the far corner that Greg hadn’t even noticed. One man carried salads, another wine, and the third two covered dishes. They served everything at once, moving around the table in something akin to a choreographed dance. When the salads were dressed and the wine was poured, the butler took the covers off their entrées with a flourish—revealing a perfectly rare steak with roasted potatoes and asparagus for Lestrade, and blackened sea bass with seasoned rice and sautéed veggies for Mycroft.

Through the steam emanating from his plate, he saw the butler—the last of the staff—leave the room through the hidden door. Once said door was closed, Mycroft gestured toward the detective’s plate.

“Please, begin. As I said, I will not keep you long, and this conversation is privileged.”

Greg took a tentative bite. God, it was perfect.

“How’d you know I like steak and potatoes?” he asked, mentally kicking himself for talking with his mouth full.

“Please,” Mycroft said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Lestrade felt himself jerk up, involuntarily. Mycroft and Sherlock looked nearly nothing alike: Sherlock was thin and lithe, Mycroft had a husky, more substantial build; Sherlock had luxurious black curls, Mycroft had delicate reddish-brown hair. But in that moment, Mycroft’s cadence had sounded almost identical to his brother’s. He wondered how much they influenced and fed off each other, even though they didn’t get along.

“Child’s play,” Mycroft continued, only making the situation eerier with his accidental(?) impersonation of his younger brother. The ginger man began his own meal, and Lestrade was suddenly reminded of _why_ he was having the best dinner of his life in a restaurant he could barely afford to dream about.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, taking a sip of red wine. Usually, it reminded him of the stuff he had to drink whenever his strict and devout grandmother dragged him to mass. In general, he preferred beer, or even whisky really. But the wine was pretty good, and it wasn’t like he could afford something so tasty any time soon.

Mycroft, he noticed had taken only a bite of his food before setting down his utensils. He interlocked his fingers and positioned them under his chin, looking intently at Lestrade.

“You have done an excellent job in helping Sherlock to kick his ‘little habit.’ I truly applaud you. And I’m sure he appreciates the credit you gave him in Mrs. Ramsey’s article.”

Greg nearly spit out his wine. “ _You_ read _The Telegraph_?” he said, incredulously.

Mycroft simply scoffed. “God, no. It’s terribly cheap. Besides, the news is hardly _news_ to me. By the time it’s cleaned up and printed for public consumption, it’s irrelevant. But I do find it necessary to monitor all official mentions of Sherlock, journalistic and otherwise."

Lestrade sat back, and regarded Mycroft carefully. For some reason, he felt less on edge around the man than he normally did. He wouldn’t necessarily call their relationship a _friendship_ , but he found this dinner amicable enough that he didn’t mind ‘chatting,’ though he could tell Mycroft was dancing around an issue.

“Has the article got anything to do with why you brought me here?”

“Excellent observation, Detective Inspector,” the other man said, eyes dark in the dim lighting. “You have done nothing wrong, I must assure you. Though there has been an…unforeseen consequence of Sherlock’s exposure that you must be aware of, as it involves both my brother and nephew and could potentially jeopardize Sherlock’s sobriety.”

Lestrade looked up sharply from where he’d been cutting his potatoes. “What is it?”

Mycroft rang a small, brass bell that was lying near the wine decanter. The butler reappeared almost immediately, with a thick, manila envelope. “Thank you, Frederick,” Mycroft said as the man dipped his head in acknowledgement and quickly walked back through the door. Mycroft flipped open the file, though he did not appear to be reading it, but rather reciting from memory.

“Matthew and Theresa Trevor, ages 51 and 49. Married 25 years now, Both from Devon. They had a daughter, Victoria Trevor. Mrs. Trevor began experiencing health problems when Victoria was fourteen, so they sent her to London to live with a Patricia Mueller, Theresa’s sister.” Mycroft said, his eyes never leaving Lestrade’s.

“Victoria, as in Alex’s mother Victoria?”

“The very same,” Mycroft said, handing the file to Lestrade. “Sherlock told you that she was on her way to tell them about their grandchild when she was killed in that unfortunate automobile accident, yes?”

“Yeah…was that…not the full story?” Lestrade asked warily. He wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, if Mycroft had orchestrated the accident to fulfill some sort of clandestine agenda. He immediately felt guilty. There wasn’t much that he knew for sure about Mycroft Holmes, but he was sure that Mycroft worked only for the good of his family, in his own twisted way. _There’s no way he’d intentionally leave Alexander motherless,_ Lestrade thought firmly. Mycroft must have sensed that he was not paying attention, because he cleared his throat pointedly and said, “Perhaps you should let me finish, Detective Inspector.”

“Sorry,” Greg said, sheepishly.

“I did not have anything to do with Victoria’s death, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, his face back to its former mask-like countenance.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Lestrade said, almost too quickly.

Mycroft just smirked. “In that case, shall I continue?”

Lestrade nodded, and tried to cover his embarrassment with a bite of steak as Mycroft began to speak once more.

“When Victoria was 16 years old, Patricia had informed Mr. and Mrs. Trevor of her activities.  Specifically, both her… _involvement_ …with Sherlock, and her drug abuse. When she discovered the pregnancy, she begged her aunt not to inform her parents, as she wanted to tell them personally. Mr. and Mrs. Trevor were not known for their understanding, you see,” Mycroft said, crossing his legs and settling into his char. “She procrastinated for nearly two years, until James was nearly one year old, before she decided to make the trip to Devon. After seeing Sherlock’s success with our parents, she planned to simply arrive with James in her arms, to divert attention away from her own activities and allow their attention to be occupied by their grandson. James, as I believe you are aware, contracted an ear infection a few days before the trip, so she left him with Sherlock and set out to Devon alone. As you know, it wasn’t to be.” Mycroft paused to take a sip of wine. Lestrade sat on the edge of his chair, waiting for him to continue.

“The funeral was to be held in London, and the Trevors made the trip in from the coast. Here, they finally encountered James…and Sherlock.” Mycroft paused, collecting his thoughts.  “Sherlock had been clean, for some time after James was born, mostly with the support of Victoria, who commendably hadn’t used drugs since she’d found out she was with child. Unfortunately, however, the same could not be said of Sherlock. After the Victoria’s death, he left James in my care for four days—the time between the accident and the funeral. I hadn’t seen him since but I assumed he would attend. When he finally did arrive—an hour late, I might add—he was a wreck. He had clearly been binging since he left, wearing the same clothes he had been since I’d last seen him. In jeans, a sweatshirt and dirty trainers, he was obviously underdressed for a funeral, a fact which the Trevors did not appreciate to say the least.” Mycroft was staring into the middle distance, remembering the day his younger brother fell apart. Mycroft was lost in his memory now, and Lestrade, the last bites of his meal long forgotten, was listening with rapt attention. Whatever either Holmes might say, Sherlock clearly cared for Alex’s mother, and Mycroft clearly cared for Sherlock.

“He’d interrupted the priest’s eulogy, the cathedral doors slammed open and everyone turned to look: their classmates, our family, and _her_ family. He came ambling in, the smell of day-old gin and cigarettes following him down the aisle. I could tell from one look he was under the influence, drunk and high—heroin, I suspect. He walked unhurried all the way to the front pew, where we were seated. He dropped himself into the pew and ignored the stares and whispers of the other mourners. Our parents ignored his impairment. The priest asked him if he’d like to give a speech, just to be polite. Sherlock just stared at him. When the service was over, I left James in the care of our parents and quickly dragged Sherlock to the car and took him back to my flat, not five minutes from the cemetery. Whilst he slept it off, our parents arrived. They’d tried to introduce themselves to the Trevors, but they had retreated to their car a driven away.”

Mycroft seemed to be at the end of his reminiscence and Lestrade shook himself, trying to come to grips with the knowledge he had gained. He’d wanted to know the situation in its entirety since he’d found out that Sherlock had a child—curiosity is just a side effect of being human, after all. But it never occurred to him that the gravity of truth was a burden he was not equipped to bear. He felt perspiration on the pads of his fingertips, then remembered the file in his hand and leafed through it. There were pictures and profiles of both Matthew and Theresa Trevor, a copy James Alexander’s birth certificate, and finally, a photo of Victoria Trevor.

She was a pretty girl, with a heart shaped face and wide blue eyes in the same deep shade as Alexander’s. She had long, wavy, light brown hair, full lips, and dark, thin eyebrows. There were three school photos documenting her growth from fourteen to seventeen years old — _as old as she would ever be_ , Lestrade thought sadly.

To his surprise, he found one of she and Sherlock together. Lestrade had known Sherlock played the violin, but he’d never considered that he’d played for the school orchestra. It appeared that Victoria had played for their school as well. The picture in the file was clearly taken before or after a concert. In the photo, she was nearly as tall and as thin as her companion, posing with her flute and winking at the camera while Sherlock stood stock-still, smirking and looking elsewhere. They both looked so young, and it broke the policeman’s heart that he could tell they were both high as kites—all flushed cheeks and glassy eyes with pupils blown wide.

He leafed through the document and found a few more. One was taken around Christmas time, wherein Victoria was clearly pregnant though she was wearing a large sweater. She and Sherlock stood on the staircase in someone’s home, looking as though they’d been forced to take the photo. The next was taken in hospital, presumably the day Alex was born. The girl had her hair tied into a messy ponytail and her hand resting on her stomach. She was leaning to the side whilst Sherlock sat by her, reading some book aloud as she craned her neck to see. The last was photo of Sherlock, Victoria, and little Alex, all three bundled up in hats and coats. This was the first picture wherein all participants were visibly sober, Victoria smiling wide while Sherlock kept his gaze on the baby in her arms. The surroundings seemed familiar, and Lestrade recognized the tree in the background from the photo at Mrs. Hudson’s house: they were at the duck pond.

Suddenly Lestrade felt as though he were intruding on something very private. He closed the folder out of reflex and handed it back to Mycroft, who took it back and gingerly placed it next to his forgotten plate of food.

“I’m not telling you this to make you uncomfortable, or to make you feel as though you’re invading Sherlock’s privacy. Rest assured, I will inform him of this conversation and your accord with him will not be breached.” Mycroft said, looking at Greg intently.

“Then why are you telling me this?” The detective barked, prompting a surprised Mycroft to raise his eyebrows. Lestrade was suddenly aware of just how quiet the room was—so quiet, he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “You said that there’s some threat to Sherlock’s sobriety, and God knows he’s trying so I want to know what’s going on here and _now_ , no more ancient history,” he continued, his blood singing with adrenaline. Despite his daydreams, he had never spoken so directly to Mycroft before, and certainly not in such a heated tone. But apparently, this was serious, and if he was to know anything else about Sherlock’s past, he wanted it to be Sherlock’s choice to tell him.

Mycroft regarded him for a moment. Lestrade stared right back. Finally, Mycroft reached over and took up the folder again. He flipped to the very back, and pulled out a small, paper-clipped stack. 

“This was delivered to my desk, intercepted by a paralegal I keep in my employ,” Mycroft said, looking over the papers. Lestrade craned his neck, trying in vain to see what the papers contained. He sat back when he realized that he was neither able to catch a glimpse nor was Mycroft going to show him just yet.

“Hang on, you intercepted legal documents?” he asked accusingly. _I know he’s got a far reach but this is ridiculous_ , Lestrade thought.

“Do relax, Inspector, it shall be delivered to the proper department. As I said, I monitor all mentions of Sherlock. I simply like to be aware of things such as this in advance,” Mycroft said, patronizingly. Lestrade simply glared, until Mycroft handed over the stack. After a single glance, Lestrade felt his heart sink.

“They’re suing Sherlock for custody?!” he exclaimed, reading over the first few lines of the document.

“Indeed. Apparently, they’ve had the papers drawn up for years; ever since they saw the state of him at Victoria’s funeral, they’ve been trying to take Sherlock to task. I believe they blame him for her drug abuse and somehow, for her death. I keep much of my family’s personal information out of official records, for obvious reasons,” Mycroft said, with a tight smile. “As a result, the Trevors have not been able to find any telephone number or address by which they may contact Sherlock. However— “

“Shit. The article,” Greg all but groaned. An impossibly heavy ball of dread began to take shape in the pit of his stomach. _I fucked everything up_ , he thought.

“Do not blame yourself, Inspector,” said Mycroft, in a startlingly firm tone of voice. “You have done far more good than you have harm. Sherlock is clean, clearly has been taking care of Alexander for years, and is in excellent standing with the Metropolitan Police force. Thanks to you, if need be, he will have a much easier time fighting such an ordinance in court.”

Normally, Greg was a man who could roll with the punches. But the idea that Alex and Sherlock could be split up and it would all be because of _his_ actions—accidental or no—was making his skin crawl and his gut queasy.

“Do you think it’ll come to that?” the policeman asked, fighting the urge to reach for a cigarette out of sheer anxiety.

“I do not,” came the reply. “If Sherlock remains clean and keeps occupied with cases and caring for James, he should be able to keep custody. Especially with the help of a few, shall we say, _influential_ people I happen to know.” Mycroft said, and he truly didn’t look worried. Then again, Mycroft never looked worried. But Lestrade had a feeling that this calm was genuine, not a bluff or a disguise. He felt the knot in his chest loosen marginally, but he was unable to completely dislodge it. 

He was right to still feel a little on edge, as Mycroft continued: “But the point still stands that this news will be very upsetting for Sherlock, though he will claim that it is not. He is very fond of his son, and he doesn’t want to lose him to the Trevors anymore than we do. I want you to keep a very close eye on my brother in the coming weeks. I will inform him of this development tomorrow morning, and I will manage the legal side of things. You, Inspector, are to contain Sherlock.”

“You say that like he _can_ be contained,” Greg grumbled, mostly out of habit. He and Mycroft both knew he’d do whatever it took to keep Sherlock and Alex together.

“I’m counting on you, Gregory.”

“Alright. I’ll see what I can do about getting him a case or two,” Lestrade said, reaching out to finish the last of his wine. He was sure to savor the flavor, as he could feel that the dinner was drawing to a close; in spite of this somehow, Mycroft’s plate was still full whilst his own had been licked clean. He absently wondered if Mycroft had some other meal waiting on him somewhere or if he simply wasn’t hungry.

“Thank you.” Mycroft said as the butler arrived to take their dishes, bringing Greg out of his thoughts. Once again, Mycroft was putting him in charge of his younger brother. Somehow, he didn’t mind.

* * *

 

Outside, Lestrade lit a cigarette while he waited for Mycroft, who’d gotten an important call. He thought of everything he’d learned tonight, and considered what it would mean for the future. By now he should have learned that if Mycroft wasn’t worried, he certainly shouldn’t be. But he couldn’t help it. Sherlock had only been clean for a little over a week, it was not unreasonable to think that Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, whom Sherlock probably didn’t even _remember_ meeting, could throw a wrench into his sobriety. Perhaps he should stop back by the Yard, see if there were any cold cases yet…or maybe he should wait? To see how Sherlock would react? If he acted as though it were a big deal when Sherlock wasn’t worried, then that could make Sherlock worry, and if Sherlock started to worry, then he might feel tempted to use, and…

Lestrade snorted around the butt of his cig. _You’re spiraling, you idiot. Relax, have some faith in the kid_ , he thought, chastising himself. In the midst of his internal rebuke, the town car pulled up and Mycroft Holmes materialized beside him and spoke, startling the detective.

“If you’re ready?” Mycroft asked, gesturing toward the car.

As the two rode toward Lestrade’s neighborhood, the policeman turned to the government official, summoning the courage to break the silence.

“I don’t usually drink wine, but I liked that stuff tonight. What was the name? Maybe I can find a cheap knockoff,” Lestrade joked, though he was glad to see their turn coming up as the sun began to set behind them.

“Felsina Maestro, Cabernet Sauvignon. Though the bottle we had tonight only costs about £60.” Mycroft said, to Lestrade’s surprise.

“Really? I thought you fancy types drank that 100-year-old, £3,000 stuff,” Lestrade said, pulling on his coat as the car stopped in front of his house. Not surprisingly, his wife’s car was absent from the driveway.

Mycroft turned to face him as he got out of the car. Once again, his face was partially enshrouded in darkness, his eyes hidden in the shadows of the car. Although, with small grin he said, “Good taste is not exclusive to price alone, nor is what is considered ‘low brow’ always such. Consider yourself and your company the example that proves that rule.”

Lestrade was so stunned by the simple, matter of fact complement that he missed the other man’s quiet “Goodnight, Detective,” delivered just before the car pulled away.

 

 

                                                                                                                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I just updated, but I had a already begun this chapter and I finished it early so voila!
> 
> I hope that anyone else who was curious about Alex's mother feels a little more 'in the know.' Please let me know what you think so far!


	9. The Duck Pond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade goes to meet Sherlock and Alex at the duck pond in the park, as sure a sign as any that he has been accepted by the little family. Unfortunately, such lovely day is ruined by two very unpleasant people: Mr. and Mrs. Trevor.

 

It was three days since his dinner with Mycroft, and Lestrade was sitting on his front stoop, having a cigarette. Despite his resolve to quit smoking, Lestrade found himself giving in and buying a package the day after Mycroft took him home. The elder Holmes had told him not to worry about the Trevors, but Greg couldn’t help himself. He knew that Sherlock, regardless of the policeman’s reassurances, was insecure about his parenting abilities. The last thing he needed—especially considering his newly established sobriety—was to have those abilities questioned.

It was all he could do not to reach out to Sherlock first, but he certainly didn’t want to spook the young man with his own fears. After all, he’d seen first-hand whilst Sherlock cried on his bathroom floor, wracked with pain and doubt during his bout with withdrawal, that Sherlock was terrified of his own shortcomings. More specifically, his shortcomings having an effect on Alexander. In Lestrade’s opinion, this custody suit was the very worst thing that could happen, with the very worst timing.

He tried to distract himself by thinking about Jenny. Though, _that_ was hardly a soothing topic. She was purposefully ignoring him, avoiding him with careful planning and scheduling. Although, to his dismay (or perhaps relief), he noticed more and more of her stuff disappearing. Cookware, pairs of shoes and underwear, books and toiletries—all slowly making their way from the house, from their home. Greg threw his cigarette butt into the bushes in frustration. For a while there, he was able to concentrate on building Sherlock and Alex’s lives up, even as his own was crumbling around him. But the threat of Victoria’s parents was making it hard to find refuge anywhere.

The sound of his phone ringing cut through his melancholy thoughts. He sighed, and paused to light a second fag before digging around in his pocket for his mobile. His heart-rate jolted when he saw Sherlock’s name flashing on the screen. 

“Hello?”

“Lestrade. Are you busy?” asked the source of all Greg’s anxiety, in his deep rumbling voice.

“No, I’m off for the weekend. What’s going on?”

He could hear Sherlock take a deep breath through his nose. “Well, I—Alex has been asking to see you, and…”

Lestrade restrained himself from asking Sherlock to get on with it. After all, Sherlock always seemed nervous on the phone, at least when he needed something. Maybe it was because he couldn’t use visual clues to anticipate the reactions of his counterpart, or maybe it was because he loathed asking people for favors. Either way, Lestrade waited for the younger man to collect himself and finish his thought.

“Just…would you like to come to the park with us today?” Sherlock eventually pushed out in a rush, after a few seconds of silence.

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up. This was an invitation that he wasn’t expecting, but that he was glad to receive nonetheless. After all, he hadn’t seen Sherlock or Alex in person for over a week, though Sherlock had been keeping himself relevant by texting in clues to some of Lestrade’s  open cases.

“Of course, what time? And which park? I’ll meet you there.” He said, stubbing out his cigarette and heading inside to find a jacket.

* * *

 

Greg got out of the cab and scanned the area. Sherlock had told the policeman to meet him on the north side of the park, near the pond. He headed in that direction, hands shoved deep in his pockets. It was a crisp autumn Saturday, and the sun was out for once, illuminating the red and yellow leaves that dotted each and every tree. Parents and children picnicked, couples held hands as they strolled along, an elderly man played with a dog—it was painfully picturesque. It seemed like Greg was the only one in the park with any troubles, but he tried to shake them away. Mycroft said that he would tell Sherlock about the custody suit, and about his telling him about Victoria. The way he figured, if Sherlock was having a leisurely day at the park, he should take that as a sign that the younger man was fine and that he should be too. 

As he came upon the pond, he recognized it from Mrs. Hudson’s photos, and from the photo in Mycroft’s dossier. For some reason, he felt as though he had achieved some sort of status in the little Holmes family, being invited to a place that was so special to them. He saw a tall figure with a shock of curly black hair standing near a bench in a long black coat—Sherlock. He was looking a smaller figure that must have been Alexander. The boy was wearing light blue jeans and green sweater and a red, puffy coat. A dark blue beanie was shoved over his curls, though some were still visible, bouncing along with the red bobble on top of his hat as he chased the ducks and geese.

Lestrade approached the family, crunching over fallen leaves instead of taking the winding path. Sherlock turned and watched him approach, then gestured toward the bench before taking a seat himself.

“Sherlock,” the policeman said in greeting. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement but kept his eyes on his son, who was laughing hysterically as a group of aquatic birds fled towards the water. Lestrade chuckled.

“So, this is the duck pond that I’ve heard so much about.”

“What could you have heard? Alexander only mentioned it once, that day you were talking to him like he was idiot,” Sherlock muttered distractedly.

“Yeah, but Mrs. Hudson had a photo of you guys at this place, and so did Mycroft when—” He cut himself off. Even though Mycroft had promised that Sherlock and Lestrade’s accord ‘would not be breached’ by his looking through Victoria’s dossier, Sherlock was a private person and he might not like knowing that Lestrade was made aware of the more intimate details of his life, without the young detective himself revealing them.

But his fears were assuaged when Sherlock simply glanced over and said, “Mycroft told me that he showed you Victoria’s file. I take it you saw the photo of Alexander’s first outing?”

Lestrade nodded, then took a deep breath. “He also told me about her parents…?” he said, fishing for how much Sherlock knew.

Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat, but Lestrade could still see him fidgeting. He looked nervous, but not overly so. Like his anxiety was lurking just beneath the surface, the water flowing under the frozen lake that was the young man’s expression. He found his son with his eyes again, and sighed. He could practically feel Sherlock’s desire for a cigarette, and it was contagious. He squashed the craving.

“I know about the custody suit.” Sherlock said simply.

Lestrade tried not to react in any way. After all, _was_ there a proper way to react?

“And…how are we feeling about that?” He asked tentatively.

“How should I be feeling?” Sherlock asked flippantly, though the edge was still quite evident in his tone.

Lestrade, too, turned to watch as Alexander stopped around in the weeds near the water’s edge. _Afraid, indignant, maybe angry. Angry at me_ , he thought guiltily. The policeman swallowed hard and searched for the words to answer, but Sherlock cut him off before he could begin.

“Lestrade, I am not angry with you. You were trying to help. Do not dwell on the unsavory effects of your deeds.” Sherlock said, mirroring Mycroft’s uncanny ability to rip his emotions from his mind with something almost akin to tactfulness.

“You could be angry with me, I’d understand,” Lestrade said, unable to shake his guilt, no matter how irrational it was or how much either Holmes attempted to assuage his fears.

Sherlock stared hard at Lestrade for a long moment, prompting the older man to wonder what he was thinking. _Is he trying to decide whether or not to let me have it for disrupting his and Alex’s lives? Or was there a possibility, however slim, that he’s going to try to say something…comforting?_ the policeman wondered. _The worst part about it is I only told the woman how to contact him so that he could make a better life for himself and for Alexander. This whole fiasco is either a lesson in cruel irony, or the worst backfired ‘good deed’ I think I’ve ever heard of,_ he thought.

Ultimately, though, the younger man just sighed and looked back at his son, who was now slapping the water with a stick. Feeling dissatisfied, Lestrade kept his eyes on Sherlock. The young detective felt his gaze and eventually met Greg’s eyes, before his focus slid past him. His eyes widened slightly and he turned his attention back on Lestrade with a look that borderlined panic.

“Don’t look, just listen. I haven’t been _entirely_ honest with you. Mycroft organized a meeting here, at this time, with Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, and they are currently heading this way.”

Lestrade felt his eyes go wide, and he fought every instinct to whip his head around and stare at Alexander’s grandparents.

Sherlock continued. “I don’t know exactly how much Mycroft told you, but I’ll admit I was a little… _less_ than sober…the last time I saw them. It was Victoria’s funeral, and as I’m sure you’re aware, I wasn’t really handling her death well.”

Lestrade felt his stomach fall, like there was a vacuum in his abdomen sucking out every feeling of security. He didn’t have any idea what was going to happen next, and now thanks to Sherlock’s ‘don’t look’ instruction, he didn’t even know what they looked like. And this news was blindsiding him with the confirmation of all his fears. He did his best to swallow his alarm and focus on what Sherlock was saying.

“I want to try to persuade them to drop the suit. They know nothing about me, beyond what they heard from Victoria’s aunt and our brief encounter at her service. Neither instance is a very positive portrayal,” he said, hurriedly, and in a gradually quieter voice. His focus kept briefly shifting to somewhere behind Greg as he tracked the Trevors’ approach, and the policeman felt like he was in a horror movie—able to hear them approach, but forbidden to move or react. Sherlock’s voice had lowered to a whisper as the volume of the footsteps on the path behind him increased incrementally. “This is in fact the first time I will be conversing with them, and I need to convince them that I am not as…irresponsible as they no doubt believe I am. That’s why you’re here. Think of yourself as my character witness,” he said, rising as the Trevors came to a stop behind him.

Lestrade finally felt able to turn and face he and Sherlock’s adversaries. Visually, they were not as terrifying as he had built them up to be in his head.

Mr. Trevor—Matthew—he recalled from the dossier, was shorter than Sherlock by maybe an inch. He had salt and pepper hair (more salt than pepper, really, especially at the temples) and sharp brown eyes that sat behind a pair of spectacles, perched on a straight, Roman nose. He wore a heathery grey coat over a suit, and held his wife’s arm as he sized Sherlock up.

Theresa Trevor was the spitting image of her daughter, though her hair, too, was beginning to grey. However, it was straightened and cut into a short bob—unlike her daughter’s long, chestnut locks. She was a petite woman, a full head shorter than her husband, and dressed in a burgundy pea coat and slacks.

Greg stood as Sherlock approached the couple, extending his hand to Mr. Trevor, who looked at it disdainfully for a moment before shaking.

“Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, it’s nice to formally meet you. I hope you had no trouble finding us,” Sherlock said politely. _So, the idiot_ does _know how to be polite_ , Lestrade thought.

“No trouble at all,” Mrs. Trevor replied, when it was clear her husband would remain silent. She glanced at Lestrade. “I’m sorry, who might you be?”

Lestrade extended a hand, first to her, then to Mr. Trevor. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I’m a…colleague, and friend, of Sherlock’s. Came to visit he and Alex here for a spell,” he said, feeling more out of his depth than he had in a long time. Mrs. Trevor nodded in acknowledgement, then introduced herself and her husband; Mr. Trevor was a stone.

The foursome stood in silence for a long moment, before miracle of miracles, Matthew Trevor spoke. His voice was nearly as deep as Sherlock’s, and it startled the older detective.

“I suppose one of us should address the elephant in the room,” he said, as the tone in his voice changed from conversational to accusatory. “Seeing as we actually _have_ met before. Though I suppose you don’t quite remember the _funeral service_ we held for our daughter.”

Lestrade could practically feel Sherlock grow tense. The younger man cleared his throat.

“Ah…yes…that,” he said, hoarsely. “I’d like to…apologize…for my behavior that day. I was quite upset, and not myself, but the state in which I arrived at Victoria’s service was, of course, inexcusable. I’ve since found less…destructive methods of coping with things that I find distressing.”

Mr. Trevor drew himself up to his full height, and it was clear that whatever the ‘official’ pretense for this meeting, he was going to use it as an opportunity to tell off the father of his grandchild.

“My daughter is _dead_ , and all you have for me is an apology?" He ground out, volume barely restrained. "You ruined her life! You got her addicted to drugs! You got her pregnant! You got her _killed_!” His face was turning red, and beside him, his wife had tears in her eyes that threatened to fall at any moment. “And now, not only is my daughter gone, but _you_ , a drug addicted _psychopath_ have the _audacity_ to call me here so that you can ask me to let you keep my grandson?” He took a deep breath and composed himself. “I hope you can explain yourself.”

Sherlock stared hard at him before responding. “I cared for Victoria, more than I do for most people. Not only was she one of my only friends but she gave me my son and I will always be grateful to her for that. But I could not, would not, and _did not_ kill her. A drunken, irresponsible driver took her life, and we _both_ suffer her loss,” he said, and Lestrade could hear his voice shake. He glanced curiously at his companion, searching for signs of distress but he found only resolve.

Sherlock continued, “I have cared for Alexander _alone_ since her death. I make sure that he is safe and that he is happy. I am _not_ the same child I was three years ago. I am clean, I have a secure flat and meaningful employment. In fact, I work with my associate here at Scotland Yard solving crimes with Metropolitan police, as well as taking some of my own private cases—” Sherlock said, gesturing to Lestrade before Mr. Trevor interrupted with a cruel laugh that held no humor.

“Please, did you met him in some flophouse?” Mr. Trevor asked, addressing Lestrade.

Sherlock ground his teeth as Lestrade frowned and said, “Now wait just a minute…” before Sherlock uttered a quiet ‘Lestrade’ under his breath. The policeman quieted, though his blood still sang with anger.

“As I was saying,” the young father continued, fire and steel in his voice, “There is nothing wrong with Alexander’s life. I ensure that he wants for nothing. As such, I think that a suit for full custody is both excessive and vindictive. If you are willing, I can have my brother’s lawyers negotiate and draw up a visitation agreement with the both of you, but full custody is _not_ going to happen.”

For a moment, Lestrade felt vindicated. He had been quite ready to jump to Sherlock’s defense, but it seemed that he was more there for emotional support than for anything else—though Sherlock would never admit so such a thing. The younger man had stood his ground against the Victoria’s parents, despite their determination to use to his past to hurt him. Lestrade had hoped the meeting was over, and that the rest would be up to lawyers and such. As proud as he was of the young father, if the situation was stressful for him, he could only imagine what it was like for Sherlock’s history to dredged up and fired back at him as ammunition designed to chip away at the one thing he cared about most: Alexander.

But it seemed that Matthew Trevor hadn’t finished his tirade. He stepped closer to Sherlock, practically hissing in his face. “You may have this copper fooled, but I know what you are. You’re a _freak_. You have had every opportunity in life and you chose to be a _loser_ anyway. And worse than that, you dragged my daughter down with you. I lost my child, and now you of all people are going to keep me from _her_ child? I don’t care who your parents are, I don’t care who your brother is. I _will_ have your arse in court, and I will fight you tooth and nail for my grandson. You don’t deserve him, and you know it.”

Mrs. Trevor, simply looked at Sherlock, then at Lestrade, then back at Sherlock, whose stony countenance had begun to crack as Mr. Trevor pulled off that famous Holmesian trick without even realizing: he’d snatched all of Sherlock’s fears and insecurities from his mind and drove them right through his heart. Mrs. Trevor, in a voice barely above a whisper said, “You can’t keep him from us, not after what you’ve done to us already. Not after we lost her.” Her tears finally spilled over her lashes as she pushed out, “It should have been you.”

Lestrade felt the tension in the air, and although they were outdoors in the brisk fall weather, he felt every inch of his skin heat up in anger and his head began to feel as though he was in a pressurized room. He wanted nothing more than to order the Trevors away, and to check on Sherlock’s mental and emotional wellbeing. But, in spite of the fact that he’d never had children of his own, he couldn’t help but wonder if his disdain for the way the Trevors were treating Sherlock came purely from being friends with the young man. If he was in their position, would he feel similarly? Would he need someone to blame if he had lost a son or daughter? Would he say anything, do anything, to get custody of the last remaining link to his child?

He decided that perhaps he would, but not like this. He wouldn’t try to deliberately break a man’s spirit to get what he wanted. And the way that the Trevors were dealing with Sherlock went beyond grieving grandparents who simply wanted to connect with their grandchild. They wanted Sherlock to _hurt_. And that was what he could not abide.

“Listen,” he started, trying to keep his anger in check. “Sherlock has made mistakes in the past. He has taken responsibility for them, and made amends. He’s apologized, and moreover, I think he’s been more than fair about a legally binding visitation or partial custody agreement. But that isn’t all that you came here for. If it were, you would have at least asked where Alexander _is_ by now.”

The Trevors looked taken aback. Mr. Trevor began to scan the area for the child, before saying: “It’s not as though either of _you_ have been paying attention to his whereabouts either.”

Sherlock immediately pointed to where the boy was nearly obscured by a patch of tall grass. “He’s been observing that ducks nest for nearly ten minutes now.” All four adults looked in the direction that Sherlock was indicating and indeed, the little blue hat with the red bobble was visible amongst the reeds, the little boy was in a crouch, staring at a nest on the ground.

Sherlock called out to his son. “Alexander, come here. It’s nearly time to go, and there are some people you need to meet.”

Lestrade whipped back around to face the older couple as the young boy began to run over, as fast as he could under the weight of his winter wear.

“You came here to hurt him, because you’re bitter and angry and you’re hurting too. But I _will not_ allow you to treat him like this. He is a good father, and Alexander is a good kid. It’s a pleasure to know both of them, but you won’t get to know _either_ of them acting like this,” he said, just as Alexander arrived near where the adults were standing around glaring. Well, the Trevors were glaring, mostly at Lestrade. Sherlock was looking at his son, a troubled expression on his face.

“Hi Mastrade!” the boy said, loudly, arms outstretched toward the policeman. Greg picked him up and settled him on his hip. Alexander glanced at his grandparents before looking at Sherlock.

“Daddy, can we not go yet? There am ducks still,” he pleaded, wrapping his arms around Lestrade’s neck. The policeman ignored the boy’s soggy pant legs staining his shirt and held him tighter.

Sherlock turned his attention to the older couple. “Alexander, these are your grandparents. Say hello.”

Alex looked at them for a moment, then said “Them is not mine grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa look different and them live with Mycroft.”

Sherlock cracked the smallest smile, the first one that Lestrade had seen from him all day, like Alexander’s presence was magically able to improve even the worst situation. “They don’t live with Mycroft, he’s just always there with them because he has a complex. These are your mother’s parents,” he said, smile vanishing.

Alexander looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’s mummy’s mummy and daddy?”

Mrs. Trevor wasn’t the only one sporting unshed tears now, Mr. Trevor stood, stunned. Lestrade wondered if he was searching for his daughter in his grandson’s face, or simply marveling at the wonder of an innocent child—despite how much he looked like his father.

Mrs. Trevor nodded in response to the boy’s question. “I’m your Gran and he’s your Papa,” she said, reaching out for him. But Alex tightened his grip on Lestrade, and was looking at them warily. Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “Remember the big letter we got in the mail? The one that Uncle Mycroft sent?”

Alex nodded sagely, his eyes glued to his father.

Sherlock continued, “They’re the ones who sent it to him. They want you to go to live with them.”

Lestrade for the life of him cold not understand why Sherlock was being so sympathetic and accommodating all of a sudden. But a sinking feeling in his stomach told him that it couldn’t possibly bode well.

Mr. Trevor wiped his eyes and said, “Would you like to come live with us? We have a big house by the ocean, and we’ll tell you all about your mummy.”

Alexander’s eyebrows raised, and his eyes widened. Then he looked at Sherlock. Lestrade looked too, seeing that Sherlock was wearing an unreadable expression, but one that was undeniably melancholy. Alexander looked back at his maternal grandparents and said, “Can Daddy come too?”

The Trevors looked at each other, before Mr. Trevor replied, “No, just you. But we’ll take very good care of you.” Mrs. Trevor added, “We’ve bought you some presents, and painted your room. Do you like the color blue?”

Alex nodded, then said. “I want Daddy to come.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, your daddy needs to stay at his own flat.”

“Then I not come. Bye-bye.” And with that, he turned to his father and said “Daddy, we can see Mrs. Hudsons now?”

“Yes, but first we need to get lunch. Why don’t you go with Lestrade to the sandwich kiosk and I’ll meet you there,” Sherlock said, without taking his eyes off the Trevors.

Alex nodded, and buried his face into the crook of Lestrade’s neck and the two headed toward the sandwich shop.

* * *

 

Before he’d gotten too far away, Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s voice rumbling at the Trevors, though he couldn’t quite make out what he said. He did however, hear Matthew’s response, carried to his ears on an errant gust of wind.

“I’m not going to let you ruin my grandson the way you ruined my daughter. Freak.”

The policeman whipped around, just in time to see the Trevors turn on their heels and stalk away. He started to go back for Sherlock, but the young man stood stock still until Victoria’s parents were out of sight. He watched as the young man dropped, deflated, onto the park bench and lit a cigarette. He was still torn as to whether or not to approach—perhaps Sherlock just wanted to be alone for a moment—but then Alexander lifted his head and said, “We are getting sandies, Mastrade?”

Reluctantly, the policeman turned back toward the path hoping against hope that this disaster wouldn’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry for how long this took to put together. I had it half finished, and then life got in the way, as it often does. It was difficult to write, but I’m excited to get started on the next chapters. I hope this one was worth the wait. Let me know what you think in the comments!


	10. The Faxing Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the disastrous meeting with the Trevors, Sherlock thinks about the possible implications for Alexander. Invariably he concludes, that the outcomes can't be good; as a result, Lestrade is sent to the rescue, but he may just be too late...

Sherlock woke from where he had dozed off on the couch, disoriented. He tried to sit up, but found a small warm body restricting his movement. Alexander was curled up in his lap—his thumb in his mouth, curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, breathing softly against Sherlock’s chest. The detective stared at the little boy for a moment, as he often did, in awe. He glanced at the cheap, plastic clock above the telly: 11:25. He made a face at himself for not putting Alexander to bed sooner, then carefully shifted so that he could scoop the child up without waking him.

Sherlock carried him to their room, laid him down gently in his little bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and gently kissed his forehead. Alexander only sighed deeply in his sleep. Then he quietly closed the door and went back to the main room. After a detour into the kitchen for a glass and a half-empty bottle of whisky, he tossed himself onto the couch and poured a modest amount into the cup.

This had been a horrible day. At least, the middle had been. The morning had been nice: Alexander had woken him up at an ungodly hour by jumping onto his bed and declaring that they were going to make pancakes and visit “Mrs. Hudsons.” He’d chuckled despite the fact that the sun had hardly come up, then swept his son up into is arms and on toward the kitchen. He’d known about the meeting with the Trevors for nearly two days, and he tried not to let it dampen his mood as he reminded Alexander yet again that pancake batter was not the same as cookie dough— _You can’t eat it right now, Alexander, it has raw eggs._ Then they’d gone to the park, and he’d caved and found himself calling Lestrade for…support, or some other, less pathetic reason. Upon meeting the Trevors, he was glad he had. They’d appeared and brutalized him, and it took everything he had not to deduce them with such severity that their wounds were equal in emotional agony. He might have done, had it not been for Lestrade, who decided to stand up for him when doing so himself might have hurt his chances of keeping Alexander.

He took a mouthful of the dark liquor, letting it burn away his residual anger as it dashed down his throat. As he refilled the glass, he thought about what Mr. Trevor had said, about how he’d ruined Victoria’s life, and that he’d ruin Alexander’s life as well. How they would do anything to stop him, like he was some sort of villain with an evil plan.

He couldn’t deny the fact that he feared ruining Alexander’s life; after all, it wasn’t like he’d done such a bang-up job with his own. But it certainly wouldn’t be intentional— _is that better or worse? To ruin the most important life without even realizing it?_ It wasn’t even as though he’d meant to ruin Victoria’s life, even though he didn’t know if he truly believed that _he_ was to blame for _her_ demons. If anything, the way she’d turned out had been mostly down to her parents, ironically. He chuckled bitterly as he finished his second glass and poured another, carelessly now. He could remember one night when his own parents were in Belize and she’d come over, bearing gifts.

 

_Victoria had called his house, knowing his parents were out of town, and asked if his ‘nosy brother’ was around. When he’d said no, she’d simply hung up the phone and he straightened his room just a little—knowing she’d be over soon. She wasn’t his girlfriend, nor was he her boyfriend, he knew that. She was the first girl he’d ever been with; he was not the first for her. But she was pretty, witty, occasionally insightful, and had as little regard for rules and propriety as he did._

_When she rang his doorbell, he’d simply called “It’s open” and in she walked, smelling like perfume and cigarettes. He hated perfume, but he could ignore the scent when he took in the rest of her. He examined her person and was excited to see that chances were she had cocaine and that she would share; good, he was nearly out. He was sitting on the couch, his tedious homework on his lap. She’d walked over and pushed it to the floor, seating herself on top of him instead. He’d grinned when she’d pulled a little plastic bag from her bra, full of powdery, white bliss. He moved his mother’s little ceramic angel figurines to make room for the lines, and after two each, they’d gone up to his room._

_Half an hour later he caught a chill and shivered, wondering if it was worth it in the long run to get up and close the window or to simply put his shirt back on. Victoria never seemed to get cold, she lay naked before him, unashamed and unfazed by the breeze. “Got a cigarette?” she asked, rolling over onto her stomach. They’d smoked in silence before she said, “So my aunt told my parents about you.”_

_“Told them what about me?”_

_“You know, that you’re shagging me,” she said, quirking an eyebrow._

_He chuckled, “So? What does that mean?”_

_She laughed. “Well it’s not_ good _, obviously. They want me to move back to Devon, since stupid Aunt Patty also went through my drawers and found the coke.”_

 _He eyed her. “Well, she doesn’t seem to have found it_ all _,” he said._

_She shrugged, and mumbled “Got lucky.” She reached over to the bedside table, retrieved the little bag and began to draw out a line on his chest. “My parents are idiots,” she said, after she’d taken up the coke with an unladylike snort. “They want me to move back with them? I’d rather die. They’re manipulative, they’re controlling, and worst of all, the minute that you try to stand up for yourself and make up your own mind they call you disrespectful, and try to make you feel guilty for breaking through barriers that you’ve just outgrown.”_

_She passed him the baggie, and lay on her back, looking at him expectantly. He rolled over and drew out a line on her smooth stomach, between her sternum and her belly button, and sniffed it up, only half listening to her as the drug hit his receptors like a lightning strike, making the hair on his neck and arms stand on end._

_“They’re fuckers. If I never see them again, it’ll be too soon.”_

Sherlock blinked himself out of his memories. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was nearing the border between tipsy and drunk, and that he should probably stop, or at least slow down. But he could feel a plan forming in his mind. He didn’t quite know what it was yet, but it was there, taking shape just beyond his consciousness. Whatever it was it would take courage, he rationalized, pouring his fourth glass.

After the disastrous park visit, he fulfilled is promise to Alexander and they’d had sandwiches with Lestrade. The little boy didn’t even seem to truly register the fact that the Trevors had tried to take him from him, but Lestrade kept staring at Sherlock like he was going to shatter into a million pieces at any moment. Eventually he could take it no longer and the minute that Alexander finished his sandwich, he’d taken his hand and bid Lestrade good day. He could still feel the older man’s eyes digging into the back of his head when he got to the street and hailed a cab to Baker Street, but thankfully, Lestrade didn’t chase after him; he simply went home.

At Mrs. Hudson’s, Alexander fell asleep for a brief nap, clearly tired from terrorizing aquatic avian life, and Sherlock spoke with Mrs. Hudson about the Trevors.

“They want to take Alexander to live with them,” he said.

“Well, Mycroft will never let that happen,” she’d said, focusing on her knitting. Sometimes he liked to bounce his ideas off of Mrs. Hudson. She’d known him since he was a child, and she knew what he needed to hear most sometimes. Other times, she was dim and not truly reassuring. But she never tried to tell him what to do, and she never tried to fix him; she took both him and his problems as is. It made her worth the headache he sometimes got from trying to make her understand.

“Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft can’t _solve_ everything. They know…how I used to be, even Mycroft can’t make that go away.”

“ _You_ made that go away. All we can do is focus on who we are now. You keep looking backwards and you’re bound to bump that noggin of yours on something.”

He’d excused himself and sat on the front stoop for a smoke, and to think over what to do about the Trevors. He could focus on building his detective practice and the cases with Lestrade and the Met all he wanted. It was the Work, and it was important. But he couldn’t kid himself into believing that it was more important than Alexander, no matter how much more convenient it would be.

He’d made the mistake of putting his son second in the past, and look where it got him: in a custody battle with the same ‘fuckers’ Victoria had spent her last years avoiding. Only before, he’d made getting high a priority, running from himself by hiding behind narcotics and opiates. Was it still running if he was focused on something productive, like casework? Was it just as detrimental for his son to pretend like this wasn’t happening? Mycroft had—embarrassingly—tried to reassure him of the frivolity of the Trevors’ custody suit. But when he thought about his own life…

Snapping back to the present, Sherlock put down his glass, suddenly needing to think rather than to stop thinking. He needed a failsafe, some kind of safety net in case someone—like a judge—wised up to the fact that he was a screw-up and tried to protect Alexander from the sentient pile of human wreckage that was his father. In that moment, he couldn’t care less about the influence Mycroft had over his life or the custody proceedings or anything—if he couldn’t hide his failures from himself, he damn sure couldn’t hide them from a court. Hell, even that arsehole Matthew Trevor had seen right through him to his deepest fears: that wanting the best for Alexander wasn’t the same as being able to provide it, and that in the end, no matter his intentions, he wouldn’t be able to help ruining his son’s life just as he’d ruined his own.

Without realizing it, he’d made his way downstairs and was knocking heavily on the door of the building manager’s apartment. The door swung open and the potbellied man glared at him, dressed in a scruffy pair of pajama bottoms and a stained t-shirt. “What d’you want, ‘olmes?”

Sherlock listed to the side slightly before squinting the other man into focus, leaning one hand on the doorjamb for support. “I need to use your fax machine.”

* * *

 

It was nearly 12:30 in the morning, but Lestrade was awake, to his confusion and annoyance. His phone was going off on his bedside table, and it couldn’t have been the first time it had rung because he was vaguely aware of its shrill tone infiltrating his dreams.

 _Who the hell could be calling at this ungodly hour?_ He thought sourly as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Though, upon reflecting on that question, he realized it could only be one of the Holmes boys (or possibly Jenny, drunkenly calling him to say she’d made a mistake and could she come home— _it wouldn’t be the first time, though it was highly unlikely, since she never_ actually _returned,_ he thought bitterly).

Steeling himself, he peered directly at the light emanating from his phone and squinted at the name: Mycroft Homes, four missed calls.

He answered, narrowly missing the call yet again. “’Ello?” he said, hoarsely.

“Go to Sherlock’s apartment, now.”

“Why? Wha’s happened?” Lestrade asked, trying to shake himself awake after he detected the sense of urgency in Mycroft’s tone.

“I’ve just received a fax from my secretary, who says she received it from Sherlock at my…more _private_ office, around midnight, your time.”

“What do you mean, _my_ time? Where the hell are _you_?” Lestrade asked, sitting up and searching the room for his trousers and shoes—without any other information, god help him.

“I’m afraid I’ve had urgent business, what with the Korean elections so—well, never you mind.”

“Okay?” Lestrade said, pulling on a shirt. “But what did the fax _say_?”

Mycroft paused. “It’s a transfer of guardianship. Sherlock has forfeited his parental rights to Alexander and made me his legal guardian.”

Lestrade nearly dropped the phone.

Sherlock had _forfeited_ his parental rights? He mentally berated himself for not insisting on accompanying the young man after that disastrous encounter with Matthew and Theresa Trevor, he knew Sherlock had looked shaken. Now he’d gone and done something so rash and—

His mind stuttered to halt. _Hell will freeze over before I give my son to that fat bastard_ , Sherlock had said, on the very first night Lestrade had met Alexander.

 _Shit,_ Lestrade thought.

“Mycroft, I’ll call you later.” He didn’t wait to hear the response before throwing the phone into his trouser pockets and rushing out the door.

* * *

When he had arrived at Sherlock’s apartment, he saw that the manager’s light was on beneath the door. Following a hunch, he knocked as politely as he could given how loud his heart was beating in his ears.

A short, greasy-looking man answered the door in ratty pajamas. “Yeah?”

“Do you know if one of your tenants is in? Sherlock Holmes?”

“’olmes? Yeah, he’s ‘ere,” the man said, in a thick cockney accent. “Was piss-drunk, asked if ‘e could use my fax machine. Nutter.”

Lestrade nodded, glancing toward the stairway, his feet nearly carrying him up to the third floor without his permission. “I’m assuming he’s back upstairs?”

“Alls I know is ‘e ain’t ‘ere, is he?”

Lestrade turned and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He heard a child’s sobs before he even made it to the third floor, but the sound intensified as he approached Sherlock’s apartment.

 

He pushed open the door—half hurriedly, half reluctantly—and took in the sight:

Sherlock lay passed out on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, as though he’d simply slid off of either structure. He was dangerously pale and yet somehow also slick with sweat. Alexander was sat upon his chest, patting Sherlock's cheeks with his little, chubby hands; his weeping interrupted only by pathetic whimpers of “Daddy, Daddy, wake up!” There was a small puddle of sick nearby, nearly identical to the whiskey dripping from an overturned bottle on the coffee table; a single, still-lit cigarette lay in the ash-tray, a single plume of smoke rising into nothingness.

Lestrade could smell it, and for a moment he could only process the smells, not the sights. The smell of urine found its way to his nose, though he wasn’t sure if it was Sherlock’s or Alexander’s. He could smell the alcohol also, and the vomit, and something even more acrid—perhaps whatever lay in the metal spoon beside the ashtray. Besides Alexander’s cries, the apartment was nearly perfectly silent—the only other thing that he could hear was the _drip-drip-drip_ of the kitchen sink.

Looking back on that moment, Lestrade could perfect order the three worst parts about having found Sherlock that night. The third worst was the smell of burnt heroin, emanating from the coffee table. It shouldn’t have been the thing that gave away Sherlock’s relapse—that should have been the second worst thing: the sight of the needle still protruding from the young detective’s arm. The syringe was completely empty, its contents already coursing through Sherlock’s veins. And the only reason he was able to _see_ the second worst thing was because of the first worst thing—the most heart-breaking part of that entire evening.

Having heard the detective open the door, Alexander turned and ran into his arms, his cries intensifying and his face a swampy mess. Lestrade picked him up and cradled him, his little pants were warm and wet—confirming whose urine it was that Lestrade had smelled upon entering the apartment. Even now, sometimes the detective finds himself haunted by the way Alexander had looked at him, nothing but terror and sadness in his big blue eyes, before burrowing his head into the crook of the detective’s neck as he whispered, “Daddy, Daddy” over and over, like a mantra.

Lestrade did his best to comfort the child as he numbly rubbed the boy's trembling back and called for an ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry again for the wait, and I know this chapter is a little shorter than my others. I have actually moved to France for the next six months, and so understandably I've been behind on my story.  
> I hope you liked a little bit of Sherlock's perspective, it's nice to shake things up every once in a while. We have actually almost come full circle, back to the first chapter. And for anyone that's confused I do plan to go back an fill in some of the blanks in the next chapter, so the relapse isn't so abrupt.  
> Please let me know how you are liking the story so far! I love to read your comments!


	11. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finding an incapacitated Sherlock and a terrified Alexander in Sherlock's apartment, Lestrade attempts to get to the bottom of why Sherlock would sign away his rights to the son he adores.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the fact that this chapter is six months late. I moved to France for a semester, and I was a little preoccupied with classes and focusing on my second language. Nevertheless, the twelfth chapter is here, and I hope you enjoy!

Lestrade had never liked hospitals. They were a paradox—sterile white walls, shiny white floors, everything too clean to touch…and simultaneously full of germs, disease, and death. Not to mention it was impossible to get comfortable in a hospital, especially while holding a small child who couldn’t stop sniffling. Lestrade found himself staring straight ahead, his mind blank and his heart vacuous. He’d called Mycroft from the back of the ambulance, telling him what had happened. Not even the shock of hearing the older Holmes swear for the first time could pull the policeman’s eyes from the slack face of his young friend, nor prevent the sound of Alexander’s continued wailing on the ride to the nearest emergency hospital.

 _“Gregory, I trust you’ve located my brother?”_ Mycroft said, after answering on the first ring.

 _“Mycroft, he’s OD’d. Alex and I are in the ambulance, I’ll call you when we get to the hospital, but the paramedics are hopeful.”_ Greg remembered trying not to go into too much detail while Sherlock’s young son had finally run out of steam and was now quietly whimpering, his wet pants clinging to his little legs. He’d shivered every once in a while, letting out a pathetic-sounding ‘Daddy?’ every so often.

 _“He relapsed? What has he taken?”_ Greg didn’t think he’d ever heard Mycroft ask a question that he didn’t already know the answer to.

 _“Heroin,”_ Lestrade had mumbled, suddenly feeling numb to the situation.

 _“Damn,”_ muttered the eldest Holmes, before he hung up too quickly for the detective to react. Lestrade could only assume that he’d arrive when he could, apparently there was something of nearly equal importance occurring on the Korean peninsula that could not be easily abandoned by the British government.

Still, even half a world away, Mycroft’s reach was both long and formidable. As soon as they’d arrived, Sherlock was taken and seen to, never mind the line of other patients sporting injuries from their own nocturnal misadventures. A kind nurse had brought a pair of clean pajamas from the children’s ward so that Alexander could get out of his pee-soaked bottoms. The boy had tried hard to stay awake, but he’d fallen asleep before Sherlock’s condition stabilized and they got him set up a room. That was where Lestrade now sat, not daring to take his eyes off of the rise and fall of the young man’s chest. Sherlock had always performed better with an audience.

 

Why would he _do_ this? the detective couldn’t help but ask himself.  He’d had everything going for him—his sobriety, a consulting position at the Metropolitan Police force, the publicity from the paper. _Well, in fairness_ , Lestrade thought guiltily, _the publicity from the paper may well be partially to blame for this fiasco._ He looked down at Alexander, so small in his lap, his little brow wrinkled—as though even in his sleep, he knew that he wasn’t in his father’s arms. _Why the hell did I give his information to that stupid paper? Why didn’t I check up with him after that fiasco in the park? Why didn’t I do more?_

The older man was so consumed in his melancholic thoughts that he didn’t even recognize the change in rhythm on the heart monitor. Until, that is, Sherlock groaned and rolled his head toward him. He opened his hazy eyes and peered at Lestrade briefly before his gaze fell on his child. He quickly looked away.

“Still alive then?” he asked, though his tone lacked its normal flippancy. Lestrade felt his heartbeat falter at the comment.

“Sherlock…” he began, lowly and slowly.

“Relax, Lestrade,” the younger man said, swallowing as though his mouth was full of cotton. “I assure you, what happened tonight was genuinely an accident, not a suicide attempt. So, I’d be ever so grateful if you didn’t have me committed,” he grunted as he tried to move to an upright position.

“How dare you be so glib after I got a wake-up call from Mycroft—who’s in Korea for some reason—saying that you’ve forfeited your parental rights to your child? Not to mention the drugs,” Lestrade said, any willingness to have a civilized chat about this going out the window.

“I told you the drugs were an accident.”

“How the hell do you accidentally throw away your sobriety?” Lestrade was suddenly grateful for the weight of Alexander’s tiny warm body. It was the only thing reminding him to whisper-scream, rather than follow his natural inclination to bellow in anger. “Do you know how many steps there are in between deciding to buy _heroin_ and actually taking enough of the stuff to—"

“I didn’t have to buy it,” Sherlock said, barely above a whisper.

Lestrade started. “What?”

“It was already in the flat.” Sherlock’s tone was matter of fact, but only his refusal to meet Lestrade’s eye gave away his shame.

“And why the _hell_ was it in the flat?” His voice raised again, and this time Alex stirred. Both Lestrade and Sherlock turned their attention to the little boy, hoping he’d remain asleep.

When it became clear that Alex was indeed exhausted, the men resumed their muffled shouting match.

“Sherlock, why were there drugs in your flat?” Lestrade began, calmly.

“I never took them, until tonight. I just preferred to have them there.” Sherlock fidgeted with his IV. But Greg sort of understood—to Sherlock, the drugs in the flat were both a test and a safety net. If he was strong enough to ignore them day to day, he felt accomplished. But if he had a day like today…He was still angry about the relapse, but he couldn’t help but shoulder part of the blame. He should’ve done a sweep of Sherlock’s flat before taking him home to detox, or before he allowed him to return there.

“Fine,” he conceded after a few moments. “I suppose I understand _why_ they were there”—though he wished he didn’t. “And I also should’ve checked your flat after you detoxed at my place.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked in to the far corner of the room.

“What I don’t understand,” Lestrade said, raising his voice just a bit to recapture Sherlock’s attention, “is why you decided to take them tonight. Mycroft was handling the custody suit, and yeah, that Matthew Trevor guy is a complete arse, but you had every right to Alexander. Until you signed him away to Mycroft and OD’d.” Sherlock’s face had gone blank, like it did when he was actively trying not to care about something which in actuality deeply affected him.

“Help me understand,” Lestrade said quietly.

For several long minutes—an eternity in a tense situation such as this—Sherlock said nothing. He simply fiddled with the sheets or looked at the place when the two walls met on the other side of the small room. The only sound was the heart monitor and Alex’s soft, intermittent sighs. Lestrade was nearly ready to give up on getting answers when Sherlock’s head snapped up and he regarded the detective with those cool, all-seeing eyes.

“I was…concerned. Mr. Trevor was right, Alexander needs a stable home and established guardians. He deserves that. I didn’t want to take the risk of a custody battle.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t said much, but he’d said enough. In that moment, Greg knew why Sherlock had ended up here. He was afraid of losing his son, or worse, keeping him. The young man was far more afraid of being a bad father than he was of losing his son. Sherlock liked to pretend that he was above the sort of selflessness that came from unconditional love. But Lestrade knew that, misguided as it was, Sherlock would much rather break his own heart than ruin his son’s life. If only Greg could convince the young man that just because he’d had a dark past didn’t mean he and Alex couldn’t have a bright future.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade began in a cracked voice, wanting to explain things to him in a way that didn’t make him feel patronized. But Lestrade was no more above involuntary emotional responses than Sherlock was, and he could hear the pity ringing in his own ears.

Sherlock heard it too, and his eyes hardened. “I don’t need your _pity_ , Lestrade,” he sneered. “I was trying to do what was best for my son. Maybe if you had children of your own, you’d understand.”

That was a low blow and he knew it. And from the way his eyes widened in shock, he hadn’t meant to say it. From the looks of his shaking hands, and his sweaty brow, he was coming down and his body was going into withdrawal. Even still, Lestrade could feel the sting of Sherlock’s words heat his body from head to toe, and he looked away, working his jaw for a few moments to expend some of the energy he couldn’t use to punch the man.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said into the silence. “That wasn’t…I didn’t mean to…”

Lestrade held up a hand to stop the young man floundering. “It’s fine.”

“Lestrade—”

“I said it’s fine.”

Silence reigned once more, before, to Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock continued to explain himself unprovoked.

“I just thought that if I lost the case against the Trevors—which was a possibility despite what you and Mycroft wanted to believe—I’d rather Alexander go to Mycroft than to them.”

Lestrade looked vaguely surprised, as this was the closest Sherlock had ever come to complementing his brother. But he was even more surprised that Sherlock continued, saying “Victoria complained about them all the time. They blamed me for her behavior when we were younger, but she hated them. They were emotionally manipulative and overbearing, and she always said that she couldn’t wait to turn eighteen, so that she could officially start life without them.” Sherlock swallowed against a tremor, but Greg knew that it was difficult for him to speak about Alexander’s mother, one of his only friends.

“Alexander may look like me, and in many ways, he and I are similar, but he is like his mother in a lot of ways as well. He can’t go with the Trevors, because even though I cared about her, Victoria was a nightmare—we both were. I don’t want him to relearn all of her worst qualities by living in the same oppressive environment.”

Lestrade decided that since Sherlock was being so forthcoming, he’d better stay quiet until he was certain the young man was finished. Though he was still painfully curious about Victoria, he shifted Alexander in his arms and remained silent as Sherlock took a deep breath and continued.

“And he can’t live with me, because whether I intend to or not, I’ll give him the worst of me too,” Sherlock’s voice broke and Lestrade peered at him through tired eyes. Christ, it was nearly 3 o’clock in the morning.

“Sherlock, that’s not true—”

“Look at where we are, Lestrade. I’m always going to fall short of what he needs. I always have. But Matthew Trevor was right,” he said again, and Lestrade could see resignation where it had never been before, crawling like a shadow across Sherlock’s face and settling like stone weights onto his shoulders. Sherlock had never looked this way, and the lack of pride or flippancy or determination on his face made his heart ache.

“Matthew Trevor was right. Alexander deserves better than me.”

“And that’s Mycroft?” Lestrade asked, skeptically. Not that Mycroft Holmes wasn’t financially secure, and no one would ever accuse him of being emotionally unstable (one had to _have_ emotions to be emotionally unstable). He had a good job and a large house, lots of connections for Alexander’s future. But for reasons unknown even to himself, Mycroft Holmes was more of an aloof, clandestine _uncle_ , not a father or guardian.

“You’ve met him, you know who he is and what he’s like. No one would ever take Alexander away from Mycroft. No one would even dare to try,” Sherlock said, not happily. “I could still see him—the Trevors would never allow that. This is best for everyone,” the young man murmured, as he stared at his sleeping son. It was clear that the words were like ashes in his mouth, but he was determined to convince himself.

 

Lestrade, however, was not so easily swayed. He’d seen Sherlock and Alexander interact and he knew how good they were for each other. How Sherlock understood the way Alex thought and did his best to ensure the boy didn’t endure the same frustrations that Sherlock did as a child; how Alex softened all of Sherlock’s edges, and made it easier for him to relax his icy demeanor and receive affection and understanding from others. The fact that Sherlock would give that up for his son, in the (incorrect) assumption that Alex would be better off, was gut wrenching. Mostly because there didn’t seem to be anything that Greg could say to convince him otherwise.

Still, he watched Sherlock staring at Alexander who was radiating heat as if he were a beacon for all of his father’s hopes and fears, and he remembered Alexander’s cries and desperate attempts to wake his father, as though the world was ending—and perhaps, to a three-year-old, it was.

There was one tiny flaw in Sherlock’s “best for everyone” logic.

 

“If you’re so sure you’re doing the right thing,” the policeman began carefully, “then why are we in the hospital for a heroin overdose?”

“Just because it’s the right thing to do, doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Sherlock snarled, but it lacked its usual fervor. “I love my son,” he whispered. “More than life itself, but it has to be this way. Isn’t that what you said, Lestrade? To be a good parent is to be self-sacrificing for the good of the child?”

“Fuck’s sake Sherlock, not like this.”

Sherlock regarded him for a long time before speaking again. When he did, it was clear than he was on the verge of sleep, having spent all his energy on this conversation. Lestrade, too, was feeling drained. Sherlock blinked slowly and shifted his gaze toward Alexander once more, though he seemed to try not to. “It doesn’t matter. The overdose was an accident, but it’s just more proof that I can’t be what he needs. I was upset about the transfer of guardianship, and I thought—”

“You thought that since you wouldn’t be Alex’s guardian anymore anyway, you’d just what? Surrender?”

Sherlock just stared before dropping his gaze. Lestrade suddenly felt angry with him. After everything they’d worked for, more notoriety for his private detective business, the cold cases and a position in Scotland Yard, and of course, his sobriety, Sherlock had just decided to throw it away. Lestrade opened his mouth to speak but when he looked at Sherlock, he closed it again. Tears where threatening to fall, and his chest was trembling as if he was using everything he had to hold back a sob. And Greg had his third epiphany of the night, with mixed feelings (on the one hand, he was glad that he was finally understanding Sherlock a little more; on the other, he wished he’d understand something a bit cheerier).

 

Lestrade had never had children, but he could only imagine that giving one up—especially one as sweet and precocious as James Alexander—would be the hardest thing in the world. After making the decision that he felt was right, Sherlock had simply turned back to what he knew best to feel better. Perhaps it didn’t work, and he’d pushed the limit until he overdosed; perhaps after a few weeks of living clean his body wasn’t used to the same doses as before. But Sherlock was right: it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Sherlock had made the decision to give his son away—it wasn’t too difficult to believe that he wouldn’t care what happened after that.

 

By the time he was finished with his reverie, Sherlock had fallen asleep. Lestrade felt his phone buzzing in his pocket, and he was almost certain it would Mycroft Holmes on the other end of the line. Pinned down by a 40-pound toddler, Lestrade looked around helplessly for a moment before standing from the plastic chair where he’d spent the last two and a half hours. He arranged Sherlock’s wires and tubes with one hand, carefully balancing Alex with the other, before lifting the covers and sliding the boy in next to his father.

 

Almost subconsciously, both Alex and Sherlock snuggled in, and Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed in his sleep while Alexander brought his thumb to his mouth and sighed through his nose contentedly. Despite the circumstances, Lestrade felt a nonsensical urge to take a photo. He resisted, and walked to the hallway to take Mycroft’s call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this newest chapter of Self-Sacrificing, even though it was horribly late. WE've nearly circled back to the very first chapter--which sort of foreshadowed the events of this chapter. There will be another part to "The Hospital," not including the preface. Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!


	12. A New Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft returns, and considers the history that has led he and his family to this moment. After considering Sherlock's transfer of custody, he finds a new problem that he must face--with the help of DI Lestrade, of course.

Mycroft couldn’t sleep. He’d been actively trying for hours, and even though he knew that the trick to sleeping was the lack of effort rather than straining to relax, he found himself staring at the ceiling while James lay fast asleep against his side.

Mycroft had returned to the United Kingdom in the wee hours of the morning, the day after Sherlock’s overdose. Despite all the work that needed doing in South Korea, he could not just ignore his brother or his nephew. He knew that family was his Achilles heel, but knowing it and being able to break its hold on him were two separate beasts—the latter of which he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to slay. After all, everyone needed to feel that they belonged to someone. He was deeply embroiled in a shadowy, thankless job wherein all of England was his responsibility, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. But even he was not immune to the basic necessity that was human interaction—not that he’d ever admit such a thing. And since he’d always performed well under pressure, he spent his final five hours detailing an elaborate plan with various scenarios and fail-safes for his new PA, “Anthea,” to carry out in his absence. It was as much a means for him to return and deal with his family situation as it was a test of her skillset—though he had every confidence in her.

When he’d finally arrived at his private airstrip, he went directly to the hospital where Sherlock was being cared for. He found his nephew curled up under the covers next to his brother, and Detective Lestrade asleep at an awkward angle in a chair beside Sherlock’s bedside. They’d spoken on the phone briefly, and after hearing Lestrade’s update on Sherlock and James’ respective conditions, he’d informed the detective of when he planned to arrive and that he intended to look after James while they worked out what to do with his wayward brother. He’d woken the policeman, told him to go home and get proper sleep and not to worry about work the next day—he’d take care of it. It was the least he could do. Lestrade’s exhaustion won out over his desire to remain where he was, Mycroft could see the internal battle on his weary face.

After Lestrade left, Mycroft took his place in the uncomfortable plastic chair and simply watched the boy sleep for a moment. They had been here only once before (prior to James’ conception, their parents had been on a tour of Southeast Asia and Sherlock had managed to run off to live in a crack house for a week before overdoing it), but that did make it any easier now. Sherlock was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes and a new bruise in the crook of his elbow. Subconsciously aware that there was no one else in the room, Mycroft had made the conscious decision to let all of his back muscles relax until he was crumpled in the chair, head in hands. All of his worries, regrets, and fears— “emotions” that he was usually able to convince himself he was above—sat upon his shoulders and forced a shuddered breath from his lungs. He felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, one that he’d steadfastly ignored despite the building pressure.

 _One moment to react, the rest to simply act_ , he’d told himself.

“Mykie?” a small voice interrupted his surrender.

He sat up quickly, snapping back into his invincible persona. When Mycroft saw James sitting up on the other side of Sherlock, rubbing his little eyes as the pitch of night began to give way to daybreak, he’d decided to forego his reaction—or at least put it off for a while longer.

“Hello, James,” he said quietly.

“Hi Mykie. Daddy am sleeping still,” he whisper-screamed, as Sherlock used to do when Mycroft caught him sneaking around the manor as a child, usually up to no good. Now, James Alexander was using it to keep from disturbing his father; at the word “Daddy,” the print-out copy of Sherlock’s transference of guardianship that was tucked into Mycroft’s inner pocket began to burn hot against his chest. “Where we are?” the little boy asked, looking around the room before looking back at Sherlock’s prone figure with a furrowed brow.

“We’re in the hospital. Your father is sick, and he needs to stay here for a few days until he’s a bit better,” Mycroft said, trying to remember the soft-yet-solid voice that he used to speak to James.

The boy had turned back to Sherlock, and snuggled back against him, placing his little chin on his chest. “Daddy,” he whispered quietly. Mycroft decided then that it was probably best of they left the hospital and regrouped. It had taken considerable effort, but Mycroft was finally able to carry James away from where Sherlock lay oblivious to the sobs of his young son, and into the waiting car. The boy was fighting to stay awake, but it was clear that he was still weary from the emotional upheaval that had occurred in the past 24 hours, and he’d fallen asleep in Mycroft’s arms.

Once they arrived at Mycroft’s Kensington home, the elder Holmes cursed himself for forgetting to arrange for suitable accommodations for James. The boy didn’t have a toddler bed, linens, bath supplies or even a stitch of clothing in the house. He didn’t think that the old cot or forgotten drawers full of onesies and nappies would be acceptable, anything from James’ infancy that had been left behind here would be useless. Mycroft was afraid to find himself even more useless in term of emotional support. When the boy awoke, he’d be confused, distraught, and painfully aware of his absent father, with whom he had a strong bond. The clothes and supplies were an easy fix—he’d have some things brought over tomorrow. But it went without saying that James would be staying with him for some extended amount of time. How would this arrangement work now that James hardly knew him, never mind the fact that Mycroft hardly knew how to interact with the child—thanks to Sherlock’s vindictiveness.

Mycroft tried to shake the anger that spiked in his chest against Sherlock. How dare he do this to his child? His caring, precocious, innocent child? And not even for the first time?

As he carried the boy upstairs past the spare room which held James’ old supplies and into Mycroft’s own chambers, he remembered when Sherlock and James had spent time here…

* * *

 

 _The boy had been on antibiotics for nearly two weeks now, all in an effort to rid him of his double ear infection. The pediatrician had said that he would perhaps be fine after a week, but Mycroft wasn’t one to take chances. He hated hearing James in pain, but the funeral for his mother had been just yesterday, and Mycroft was honestly grateful for the ear infection—had it not been for James’ affliction, he too would have been in that horrific cab accident. Mycroft shook the thought away and tried to slip back into his doze, seeing as he still had about ninety minutes until he had to administer James’ next dose of medication._ "Sherlock should be doing this,"  _he thought,_ _slipping under a light cover of sleep._

_When he woke next, he saw the shadowy figure of a man standing over James’ cot, swaying unsteadily back and forth as he stroked the boy’s hair. Mycroft sat up slowly, shaking himself alert and silently reaching for his umbrella—a cleverly disguised gun as well as a saber. His nose registered the odor of cigarettes and a less-obvious scent of alcohol. His eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and he made out Sherlock’s facial features in the moonlight._

_“Sherlock,” he said, struggling to keep the bitterness from his tone._

_His brother started and whipped around, apparently having failed to notice that Mycroft was dozing in the rocking chair in the corner of the room. He stumbled backwards and bumped into the nightstand, causing James to sigh deeply but mercifully, he remained asleep._

_“What-What’re you doing in here?” the boy slurred._

_“I am giving James his prescribed medication. He needs a dose every six hours to treat his ear infections.”_

_“I know, I went to that doctor with you,” Sherlock snapped, leaning against the railing of James’ cot. His jacket rustled and the stink of cigarettes in the room grew stronger. Mycroft wrinkled his nose and stood. He brushed past his younger brother, opening the door to the hallway._

_“Still somehow you have yet to give him even a single dose,” he found himself snarking. More often than not, Mycroft tried not to sink to Sherlock’s level—after all, one_ _of them had to be the adult. Sherlock crossed his arms and stubbornly refused to move, until Mycroft pushed the door open wider and said, “Come out of there, you’ll wake him, and he needs his rest in order to recover. Not to mention the smell.”_

_To his credit, Sherlock looked into the cot wistfully, and Mycroft could see the concession on his face even before the boy shot him a dirty look and sauntered out of the baby’s room. In the lights of the hallway, Mycroft could see clearly just how strung out his baby brother was. His pupils were blown wide, and his fingers twitched as he reached back to close the door to James’ room with one hand and with the other, pulled a loose cigarette and a lighter from his pocket._

_Mycroft followed him as he staggered down the stairs, not saying anything about his smoking indoors—Sherlock was only trying to get a rise out of him, and they had more important things to discuss. As it was, the smoking was the very least of Sherlock’s bad habits. Once they were on the first floor, he steered Sherlock into the sitting room and poured himself a brandy while Sherlock hovered at his elbow, as though Mycroft would pour him a glass as well. When the elder Holmes had firmly replaced the stopper on the decanter, the boy glared, snatched off the lid and savagely put out his cigarette in the liquor. Mycroft just sighed._

_After a brief staring contest, Mycroft decided to skip any pretense and be direct, so as to hold Sherlock’s diminished attention span for as long as he could._

_“You have been gone for four, nearly five days, Sherlock. Your behavior at Victoria’s funeral was inexcusable, as was your decision to run off after I brought you back here to sober up. If you care about your son at all—”_

_“I do!” Sherlock interrupted, taking an aggressive step forward. “You know I do, so fuck you for—”_

_“If you care about your son,” Mycroft began again, raising his voice over Sherlock’s interruption. “Then you need to make more of an effort. Do better, or we’ll have to make other arrangements.”_

_“Are you threatening me?” Another step, and now the brothers were nose to nose._

_“No,” Mycroft said simply. “I am warning you of the consequences of your actions.”_

_“Oh, I see what’s going on here,” Sherlock said, as he began to chuckle maniacally, his darkened eyes glinting dangerously in the lamplight. “You think you can do better? Go make your own son! But Alexander is mine. I know you want to control everything, you want to take everything. But you can have him—” Sherlock said, snatching Mycroft’s tumbler and draining it in one go “—when you step over my bloody corpse.”_

Thinking back on that day, nearly three years ago now, didn’t do anything to soothe his overactive thoughts.

* * *

 

With the night wasted, he set about completing his to-do list. He called Scotland Yard and with a word got Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade the next two days off, with pay. He then left a voice message for that same Detective Inspector, telling him to come to his home for afternoon tea so that they could discuss how to proceed. He sent a text message with his home address to the policeman, then checked his emails. Anthea had followed his instructions to the letter, the meeting was a success and she would return to the UK in the early evening. He gave her two days off as well, but not before requesting that she have several necessary pieces of furniture, clothing, toys, books, and linens sent to his home address, as soon as possible.

With the arrangements for James made, he rose slowly so as not to wake the toddler next to him and fetched the transference of guardianship from his suit jacket before slowly crawling back into bed. He read over the document several times and a foreign sense of apprehension as his icy heart turned to stone and sank into his stomach. Where he thought he would find a loophole in Sherlock’s document, he found a catch-22, and while he usually loved trapping _others_ in zero-sum situations, he was not finding it so comfortable on the other side.

Sherlock, never one to be preoccupied with the fanfare of bureaucracy, had unwittingly put him into a difficult position. Mycroft, as the named proposed guardian, would need to countersign the document and file it with the correct authorities. If he did, the Trevors would know, because Sherlock had sent a copy of the transference to their attorney as well. This meant that the Trevors would be less likely to attempt to proceed with a trial, knowing that someone as powerful and well-connected as Mycroft was their opponent. It would be perfect, except that it meant that Sherlock, too, would lose the custody battle and probably his will to stay clean. So, Mycroft could decide not to file it, which would mean that legally Alexander was still Sherlock’s responsibility. Except the Trevors attorney would inform them that Sherlock was still their competition for custody of James, and with his recent relapse, they could all lose the boy to Victoria’s spiteful parents.

Mentally paralyzed for the first time in a long time, he turned his attention away from the troubling document and watched the sun finally crest over the horizon through his east-facing window. James Alexander’s little face was illuminated by the daylight, the twist of his curls—so much like Sherlock’s—shone with a reddish hue which he must have gotten from Victoria, and which was only visible during the “golden hour.” After a gusty sigh, the boy rolled away from the sun’s light and toward Mycroft, snuggling against him as he stuck his thumb into his mouth.

Mycroft found himself wondering if this was how Sherlock awoke every morning: overwhelmed and somewhat thrilled by the responsibility of a such a small, wonderous child in his care. Despite all the chaos that had plagued his family in the night, he found a strange moment of peace. His apprehension about the circumstances of guardianship had not disappeared; they’d simply been eclipsed and abated by his determination to care for his nephew, for as long as it took, until Sherlock was well and able to assume his position of fatherhood once more.

 _I’ve outmaneuvered far more for far less_ , he found himself thinking.

 It wasn’t perfect, but for once in his life Mycroft Holmes found himself content with “satisfactory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this is late and I am horrible. I also gave another perspective, Mycroft's this time, and for an entire chapter. I usually don't like trying to write from Mycroft's perspective, because he's so intelligent that it's a little difficult to capture. But since this is mostly an emotional account, I decided to attempt it. But I prefer to write from Lestrade's perspective because--let's be honest--he's the most normal.  
> I really hope you still like the story and I am really going to try to update more often to keep your interest.  
> Please let me know what you think in the comments!


	13. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade arrives at Mycroft's house to get updated on the situation with Sherlock...and to check on Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I don't really have a schedule for this fic, but I feel like I keep taking too long update. I'm gonna try to do better. And as I write more scenes with one-on-one Lestrade and Mycroft, I just want to say that this fic isn't really intended to portray any ships but I am purposely giving them a weird bond so if you're into Mystrade feel free to read between all the lines. Same goes for Sherstrade, all ships valid here. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Lestrade arrived at Mycroft’s around 9 am. To his annoyance, he found himself gaping at the enormous house, with its imposing windows and careful landscaping. _How am I not used to the fact that this guy is rich and powerful yet?_ he groused to himself as he paid the cabbie. He approached and was about to knock on the polished oak door, but before he could, a beautiful woman in a smart pantsuit opened the door and met his gaze.

“Detective Lestrade?” she asked

Forgetting himself and caught off-guard, he floundered through a “Yes, yeah. Um, Greg Lestrade, that’s me.”

“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room,” she said, before breezing past him and taking off in the sleek town car that had pulled up whilst he’d been searching for his own name. Despite himself, he’d watched her walk away, shocked that Mycroft was ( _seeing?_ ) acquainted with such a woman. He was even more shocked at himself. He hadn’t checked out another woman so obviously since before he was married. After his return from the hospital, he’d discovered that Jenny had fully moved out of the house without so much as a word, so he supposed they were truly finished. In a way, he was glad that he could simply devote all of his emotional energy toward the Holmes family mess that he found himself in. But some small part of him had hoped for a more satisfying ending. Shaking his head to clear it of any such “clutter,” as Sherlock would put it, he stepped over the threshold and into Mycroft’s mansion.

* * *

It was decorated spectacularly, if a bit impersonally. All the paintings on the walls were lovely, and undoubtedly shockingly expensive, but there were no family photos and no sentimental knick-knacks. It was more like a museum than a home, in Greg’s opinion. The marble floors in the foyer were polished so that he could see his own reflection. The crystal chandelier above the grand staircase cast an elegant glow onto the rich dark wood. All of the lights upstairs were turned off, though he could see that the hand-carved banister extended well past the edges of what was in his direct line of sight. He ignored the loud _thwap-thwap-thwap_ of his footsteps as he wandered further in, looking for the drawing room.

Luck led him to it on the first try, and he once again tried to contain his surprise at the sight of Mycroft in a dressing gown and pajamas, lounging in a baroque-styled sitting chair and reading some sort of file. The elder Holmes looked up as Lestrade entered the room. “Ah, Detective Lestrade.”

At the sound of his name, James Alexander’s little head popped up from behind the back of the sofa. “Mastrade!” he shouted. Even with all that was weighing on his mind, Lestrade found a grin break out as Alex jumped down from the arm of the couch and ran to him, arms outstretched. Lestrade picked him up and settled him onto his hip as he moved further into the sitting room. It was like an antique furniture exhibit, complete with heavy drapes and a wet bar. Lestrade suspected that some of it must be quite old and delicate, judging by the way Mycroft had paled when Alex used the sofa as a launch pad. As he took a seat, Lestrade looked around and found himself stupidly amused by the crayons, children’s books, and toys scattered around. None of it seemed to fit, but Mycroft had obviously gone out of his way to accommodate his nephew’s stay. It was just the sort of touching thing he needed before diving right into the thick of it.

“So,” he sighed, as Alex played with his little blue elephant—Simon, he remembered, from their first meeting. “Any news on Sherlock?”

Mycroft had put away his file and was now sipping a cup of tea. Greg noticed that the other man had bags beneath his eyes, and his hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d been scratching his head or running his fingers through his gingery hair in thought. “Well, I have considered the language of Sherlock’s document, and in doing so, I have discovered a rather complex problem.”

“A bigger problem than the one we’re already dealing with?”

“There’s an error in your thinking, Detective. The question is not one of size, but rather the nature of the problem that poses difficulties.”

 _Yeah, okay Mr. Peabody_ , Greg found himself thinking snidely.

“What’s the deal with this new problem then?” he asked impatiently.

“My dear brother, as I’m sure you’re aware, is—”

“Mykie, I’m thirsty,” Alex interrupted. He must have grown tired of his beanie baby, because he’d thrown it to the ground and was now looking at Mycroft expectantly from his perch on Lestrade’s lap. Judging by all the stuff strewn across the floor, this had happened a few times this morning already.

Mycroft didn’t seem to know how to react to being interrupted. He blinked for a moment before saying, “Go and find Mrs. Phillip in the kitchen. Perhaps she will make you a glass of juice.”

After Alexander had taken off through the house, still in his borrowed pajamas from the hospital, Mycroft cleared his throat and began again.

“My brother is not one to be overly concerned with legality or the hurdles of bureaucracy. This particular transfer of legal guardianship cannot take effect until it has been countersigned by myself, notarized, and filed with the proper authorities.” Mycroft said, staring off into the middle distance. Lestrade found himself wondering if the mad had gotten even a shred of sleep the night before.

“So why were you so worried if there’s all this red tape?” he asked. As far as the policeman could tell, this was great news. Sherlock had a moment of weakness, but now there were no repercussions. They could forget the whole thing had even happened, get Sherlock out of hospital and back on the wagon, and everything could return to normal. Of course, Greg knew better than to take too much comfort in his own train of thought. Months of working with Sherlock had taught him to always be ready for a Holmes to explain why he was missing something.

As usual, he was at least right about everything being much more complicated than originally anticipated.

Mycroft sighed and sat back in his chair with his hands folded in his lap. “Sherlock has always been of the mindset that I want to take James from him out of some sense of spite or need for control. When he and James lived here last, years ago, he accused me of attempting to usurp him as James’ father-figure. In reality, he was simply absent. This document is indicative of my brother’s mindset. In an effort to prove that I didn’t want to separate them, I bought Sherlock the flat on the contingence that he would significantly reduce his usage and find a sitter for James if he absolutely could not help himself. I even gave him Mrs. Hudson’s contact details. It wasn’t enough, he still did his best to keep me from the boy,” Mycroft said. Despite the normal cold, detached quality of his tone, Greg detected a note of sincere hurt that Sherlock had kept Mycroft from his nephew. Sometimes the bureaucrat was like a glacier—made of ice that would never melt; other times, he was like a frozen lake—only a thin yet seemingly impenetrable layer between the world and deeper waters. Mycroft continued, “I find it troubling that his thinking evolved from “you can have him when you step over my corpse,” I believe he said, to signing him over then promptly overdosing.”

“Yeah, I guess that is troubling,” Greg conceded. “Well…what about the Trevors?”

Mycroft winced. “Therein lies the proverbial ‘rub,’ I suppose.” He leaned forward to pour himself another cup of tea and offered Lestrade a cup with a quirk of his brow and a vague gesture toward the pot. Lestrade nodded his assent and Mycroft looked relieved to have a break in the conversation. Not obvious in his face, not really, but his stiff shoulders released just a bit. Lestrade found himself wondering if the man had ever had a professional massage. _If ever anyone needed one…_ he thought as Mycroft said, “I’ll be mother” and fixed his tea—just the way the policeman liked it, not that the man had asked.

When they’d both resettled, they took a moment to listen to Alex chatting at an unnecessary volume to Mrs. Phillips, who must have been Mycroft’s cook. Mycroft looked fondly in the direction of the kitchen for a moment, before noticing Lestrade noticing and clearing his throat.

“Sherlock has also sent a copy of the transfer of guardianship to Matthew and Victoria Trevor, as a deterrent perhaps, though it is far more likely that he believed I would immediately file the document and any trial would result in a ruling in my favor.”

Greg just grunted into his cup. For someone so intelligent, Sherlock really was spectacularly ignorant sometimes.

“The document may protect James from the Trevors, but only if I should file it. I have delayed such action, for various reasons, including that which I just mentioned—Sherlock’s irrational belief that I will take James from him the moment that I have the opportunity. Additionally, I do not want Sherlock to lose the incentive to stay sober. Therefore, legally, Sherlock is still James’ legal guardian. Now that Victoria’s parents have had nearly 24 hours with the same documents, they have decided to move ahead with the trial—though I have been told by their attorney that they do not appreciate Sherlock’s sending the document as a ‘scare-tactic,’” Mycroft scoffed with barely concealed derision.

Greg sighed in mental exhaustion. Political games were not his favorite, but he could keep up with a little effort and motivation, and listening to Alex happily listing his favorite foods to the cook was enough for him. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You file the papers and go to court for Alex, the Trevors bugger off, Sherlock loses custody and potentially goes back to using…or you don’t file the papers, Sherlock has to face the Trevors, we can’t say he’s clean anymore, and those pricks take Alex.” Mycroft nodded.

“Bloody hell, talk about a rock and a hard place.” It was hard not to feel trapped and powerless with such odds. Either they lost Sherlock to himself or they lost Alexander to the assholes he met in the park, and both options sounded equally horrific. Which is why he couldn’t for the life of him understand why the hell Mycroft was grinning. Not his usual predatory grin, which was disconcerting in some ways—Greg certainly never wanted to be on the other end of it. It was a triumphant grin, which was somehow both similar and completely different from the other. It made him glad to be on Mycroft’s side. Seeing such a grin on someone he was, for all intents and purposes, partners with, gave him confidence where he didn’t think there was any to be found.

“Do you know the origin of that expression, Detective Lestrade?”

Lestrade shook his head, even as he saw a Sherlockian rant brewing behind Mycroft’s eyes.

“The Greek hero Odysseus was tasked with sailing between the cliffs where Scylla, a man-eating monster, dwelt and Charybdis, a treacherous whirlpool. Hence the phrase, ‘a rock and a hard-place.’ However, with effort and luck, Odysseus was able to sail through both hazards and emerge with his ship and crew unscathed. We will do the same.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, about to ask how the hell Mycroft planned to accomplish this, when Alexander ran back into the room with a cookie, now dressed in pair of jeans and little white polo shirt which (like his mouth) was covered in crumbs and had already been stained by his chocolatey hands. To Mycroft’s suppressed horror, the boy began to climb onto the cream-colored couch with Lestrade before he abruptly changed his mind and decided to climb on Mycroft’s lap instead. “Mykie, help!” he cried, not wanting to put down his treat. With a glance at Lestrade, as if the detective would judge him for indulging his nephew, Mycroft settles the boy on to his knees. Alexander sighed contentedly and began munching his dessert—never mind that it was hardly a quarter to 10. Apparently not even Mycroft’s cook could resist giving the child whatever he asked for.

Mycroft, for his part, looked as though he desperately wanted to appear comfortable with the child on his lap but didn’t know how to go about it. Alexander didn’t notice his discomfort, but since it was hardly the man’s fault that Sherlock had kept the boy from him, Greg decided to nudge him back into his comfort zone.

“So? What’s the plan?” he prompted gently.

Mycroft had been staring at Alex, and he started slightly before clearing his throat. “Yes, the plan.”

“Can I help?” Alex asked, twisting around to look at Mycroft.

“Yes, of course. Just…keep doing what you’re doing. Play with your toys, eat your sweets. Detective Lestrade and I are going to talk about how to make sure you father recovers so that he can leave the hospital.” Mycroft said, his tone softening halfway through, as though he’d only _just_ remembered that he didn’t need to speak to James with an edge to voice.

“Otay. I can play outside?” the boy asked. “Yes, run along. Take Robert with you.”

“Who the hell is Robert?” Lestrade interjected.

“House security,” Mycroft said breezily. As if on cue, a 30-something year old man in a black suit entered the room. His lips were set in a thin line and his hair was closely cropped, he looked ex-military. He stoically held out a hand for Alexander, who had vacated Mycroft’s lap only to wipe his crummy hands on the man’s dressing gown (Obviously, someone other Sherlock needed to teach the boy manners). Alexander bounded over to Lestrade and hugged his leg, laying his head on the Inspector’s knee. “Bye-Bye, Mastrade!” he said before straightening and walking over to Mycroft’s security guard. When Alex and Robert had gone, Mycroft resumed the telling of the plan, for the third time. The man would certainly need to get used to having a young child around.

“I will apply for a special guardianship of Alexander. I can, of course, have the process expedited. Perhaps that will be enough of a deterrent to the Trevors, perhaps not, but either way it will bolster Sherlock’s case—which I hope he will pursue once he comes to his senses. This would likely damage my relationship with Sherlock, as well as leave the matter of sobriety incentive unsolved. In an attempt to fill this void, I will place a contingence on my special guardianship. In the event that Sherlock completes a rehabilitation program—a _formal_ rehabilitation program, with documentation—full custody will be reestablished. This is a gamble, high risk but high reward.”

It sounded solid to Lestrade, but if Mycroft had reservations…

“What’s the risk?” he asked warily.

“My brother has always been…unpredictable in some ways. He is one of the few people alive who can surprise me.” Greg believed that to be literally true.

Mycroft continued with levity. “Do not mistake this situation as a game against the Trevors. We are playing against Sherlock. I do not know _precisely_ what led him to do this, nor do I know whether these terms will be acceptable to him. If they are, then we shall have our heading. If they are not, we shall have to come up with another solution and I don’t want to discourage you, Inspector, but we have very few cards to play.”

Greg swallowed the last of his tea with trepidation, making a face upon discovering that it had gone cold. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious. I’ve secured paid leave for you today and tomorrow. Go to the hospital and convince him to enter a program,” Mycroft said, as though he were suggesting something as simple as tying a shoe.

“Yeah, I’ll just do that,” he said drily.

“Yes, Inspector,” Mycroft said, with the predatory smirk that Lestrade loathed. “You will.”

* * *

 

As Lestrade put on his jacket and got ready to leave, he found himself turning back to the elder Holmes. “How’s Alex adjusting? I mean, is he alright without Sherlock?”

Mycroft worked his mouth for a bit. Strange, the man usually had no tells when he was thinking. Sherlock had lots of tells—pacing, steepled hands, talking aloud. Mycroft just stared…usually.

“I’ve been…trying to keep him distracted. I fear he’ll become hyperaware of Sherlock’s absence at mealtimes, or bath time. But he is…far more resilient than I originally believed.”

“You know that it’s okay to be proud of him, right?” Lestrade found himself saying. _Where the hell did that come from?_

“It doesn’t make you a bad person for being glad that he’s not upset. No one wants him upset, not even Sherlock. It’s also okay to feel nervous. No one wants to make mistakes around little kids. Just relax around him. I think you’re doing well.”

Mycroft just looked at him, as if he’d been speaking pigeon. So much time went by that Lestrade’s face began to heat. _Should’ve kept your fat mouth shut, Greg._

“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft said stiffly, quietly. He gave a small but genuine smile that Greg found himself instantly returning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really making Lestrade and Anthea into a thing. I just think that Lestrade and John are like the most traditionally masculine characters in the show, and so I feel like if Lestrade ever met Anthea, he would at look twice.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Please review, let me know what you think!


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